


Calamitous Serendipity

by GreedIsGreen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drinking, F/M, Family Drama, Fluff, Fucking, Older Man/Younger Woman, One Night Stands, Sex, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-07 11:25:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 33,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10359363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreedIsGreen/pseuds/GreedIsGreen
Summary: Green beer? Whiskey? It could only be St. Paddy's Day.When Margaery drags Sansa out to celebrate, she had no intention of meeting anyone. But when she finds herself drunk, abandoned, and devoid of money, a handsome gentleman steps up to help.





	1. Chapter 1

A powerful throb behind the eyes was the first calling card, reminding Sansa of her late night activities. She was actively trying to ignore it, to snuggle deeper into the silken sheets that wrapped her up in a warm cocoon. Alas, it was not meant to be. No sooner had she pressed her head more firmly into the feather pillow that cradled her neck, than a blinding shard of morning light poured into the window. It illuminated her face until all she could see at the back of her lids was an aura of red. 

It must be some law of the universe, that. The morning sun never shines at your feet; never at your back. It always comes for the eyes. A grim reminder that the world keeps turning even if you are not awake to enjoy it.

Sansa withheld an irritable groan as she managed to eke her eyelids open. They were sagging with lethargy from the copious amount of alcohol she consumed last night. Her eyes were dry, and most certainly bloodshot, so she gave them a good rub with the pads of her thumb and index finger, noting the grit of her mascara as it clumped from the gentle pressure. She blinked a few times to spread the meager tears that she could produce until the haze lifted. 

Her vision now cleared, Sansa took a measure of her surroundings. Alarms immediately began to peal inside her mind. This was not her flat, nor did it appear to be any of her friends. Confusion engulfed her as she attempted to piece together the previous night’s events. 

Vague memories of the evening flooded into her consciousness. Green beer? Yes, there was a lot of that. Whiskey? There was quite a lot of that as well. But how in damnation had she wound up here? 

With the intent to rise, Sansa pulled the sheet back, but quickly, she discovered the answer to her own question. There was a lean arm seized about her torso, and the resistance damn near caused her to yelp. 

_Oh._

_My._

_God._

The good girl, the Irish Catholic daughter who could do no wrong, craned her neck, following the path of this unknown appendage to its origin. There Sansa found the owner still deep in slumber. The warmth of his breath wisped through the brown tangle of her hair, caressing the nape of her neck. The tenderness of his hold could almost be considered pleasant, if not for one pesky detail: she had no idea who he was.

Panic welled in her chest and Sansa struggled to find her breath. It barely rasped beyond her dry lips as the realization of last night’s debauched acts dawned. She let her head fall back into the pillow with a tremulous huff. Did she really sleep with someone she just met last night? At the reverberating ache and the tackiness between her thighs, she could confirm that, oh yes! She did. Now, she had to figure someway to navigate the aftermath. The last thing she wanted was to alert this stranger to her wakefulness. Especially so, now that she was aware of her current state of _undress_. 

Memories of the evening were tumbling back to Sansa in starts and spurts. Margaery convinced her to go out to their favorite pub for St. Paddy’s day, and between the awful green beer, and the whiskey, Sansa found herself sufficiently blattered. Then Marge’s boy toy of the month showed up, and she left Sansa at the bar to dance. At least, she thinks that's what happened. 

Scrunching up her face, Sansa turned back again to the man spooned behind her. Some bottom feeder had tried to insinuate himself into her space at the bar, when an older man stepped in and forced the prick to back off. She recognized him now. Those silver temples gave him away. 

The man took care of her tab after she misplaced her purse (yet another issue she'd have to deal with today), and offered to pay for her taxi home. Try as she might, Sansa couldn't muster up her address. So, he brought her home--his home. It was not the wisest of her decisions, but she wasn’t exactly thinking clearly, and the man seemed harmless enough.

Under normal circumstances, Sansa might assume that he took advantage of her, but that wasn't what happened at all. He sat her down, and plied her with water while he made up the sofa. He was sweet and considerate, and Sansa felt the overwhelming urge to kiss him.

So she did. 

Blurry memories transformed into a graphic play by play. Every touch, taste, smell of the evening prior flooded into Sansa’s consciousness, and their recollection reignited the flames of her desire. But moreover, there was also that deep seated shame that could only come with renewed sobriety and Catholic guilt. She swiped her fingers along her temple at that. She wasn’t a person to engage in one night stands, but she very well couldn’t see having any sort of relationship with the man pressed behind her. The relaxed lines about his eyes and mouth revealed he must be nearer her mother’s age than her own. 

A decision made, Sansa eased out from beneath the strangers hold. He stirred slightly, and her lungs wanted to burst with the breath she held hostage. She froze where she sat, and willed him to stay asleep. When he finally settled again, she swiftly, quietly, carefully rose to gather her clothing. It was scattered haphazardly about the room, and the location of her bra escaped her ken. 

In her search for the errant lace, Sansa felt a crinkle beneath her foot, and her eyes widened in dismay as the sound echoed around the room. The sleeping man didn’t stir in her periphery, and she said a silent prayer of thanks. Lifting her foot, she glimpsed a discarded remains of a prophylactic wrapper. At least they weren't so inebriated that they had forgotten that. 

Continuing her hunt, Sansa finally spotted the stray bit of lavender. It was trapped under a pale, well-formed calf. She debated for half a second whether to attempt its extraction, but promptly abandoned the idea. It was her favorite bra, but she would happily sacrifice it to avoid the awkward morning after scenario. 

In nothing but her birthday suit, Sansa slung her meager belongings over her arm, and tiptoed out of the bedroom into the narrow hall. Other than a few creaks in the floorboards, she made it to the living room in relative quiet. There, she finally redressed herself sans lace, and combed her fingers through her sleep tousled hair. Her boots were sitting near the front door. She retrieved them, and sat down on the sofa to lace them up. The sofa that was meant to serve as her makeshift bed the night before.

Sansa braced her elbows against her knees as the night’s activities came rolling to the fore. 

Sansa kissed him. She had never been so bold, usually playing the part of _kissee_ and not _kisser_ , but there was something so heady about taking charge in that moment; watching as his pupils blew wide at her approach. 

It started out as a chaste press; a provocative thank you for rescuing her from the bar. Sansa’s eyes studied his right up to the moment their lips made contact. When her mouth parted against his, he relented momentarily. His hands came up to grip tightly at her waist, and the sweet tingle of mint danced along her tongue. When her palms slid up to his chest, he pulled her back with a dazed intake of breath; insisted that she was too drunk to make an informed decision. It was goddamn gentlemanly, and Sansa had little enough experience with those. That was all it took to settle her horny, inebriated mind on him. 

The gentleman was tempted, and Sansa clutched that knowledge in a vise behind her twisted smirk. A plan fomented in her mind. Feigning sleeplessness, she asked him to settle into the sofa and watch a movie with her before bed. She was absolutely shameless, removing the heavy sweater she wore to reveal a barely there, see through camisole. She lounged back in her most inviting pose, head tilted up at him, fluttering her sapphire eyes in a obvious attempt at being coy. The man was conquered before he even sat down.

Twenty minutes after the film started, Sansa decided to test his chivalric resolve. She nudged his arm. The action seemed to take him aback, and he lifted it just enough for her to snuggle against his side. He accepted her with a touch of reticence, but wrapped an arm lightly around her shoulder. 

From the corner of her eye, Sansa saw a mischievous gleam play in his grey-green eyes, and wicked grin curled at the corner of his lips. It occurred to her then, that perhaps he was a bit more open to her clumsy seductions than his previous actions revealed. 

A few minutes later, tender fingertips began tracing delicate patterns along the skin of her upper arm. It sent a tiny frisson of sparks to coil between her legs, and a moan from the almost innocuous motion threatened to escape her throat. Sansa willed it to silence, but decided to counter his move with one of her own. She smoothed her hand over his thigh, and began raking her nails along the inside, subtlely edging her fingers closer and closer to their salacious goal. A stuttered breath escaping his lungs drew her attention, and she watched him attempt to blink away the hunger that appeared on his face; watched as his adam’s apple bobbed with a hard swallow. 

Emboldened by his response, Sansa’s movements became more brazen. Her palm inched up to crest at the crease between thigh and groin, and she saw as the evidence of her ministrations grew turgid beneath the dark material of his trousers. When she lifted her gaze to meet his, ravenous eyes devoured her, and Sansa was done for. No sooner had her tongue peeked out to moisten her lips, than he met them with his own--all previous restraint gone. The hand that had been teasing at her skin slid its way up to grasp at the nape of her neck, and he deepened the kiss, tentatively flicking his tongue out to meet her own. It was mere seconds before his other pulled her bodily over, by the back of her thigh, until she was straddling him. He was hot and hard and insistent against her own building need, and it felt _good_. 

Sansa wasn't drunk anymore--not really. There was a genial buzz lingering with every action, making her movements feel light, forcing her inhibitions to dissipate, but she knew precisely what she was doing. If he had any remaining doubt as to her state of mind, he certainly put forth no objections then. 

The long digits of his hands traveled up to cradle her face, and he broke the spell of their kiss. His eyes, fiercely green and glowing with longing, scanned over her face. He was panting hard between parted lips, and Sansa knew what he wanted before he asked. She knew because every nerve, every fiber of her being was alight with the same need. 

One slight nod of her head, and they were scrambling up. He recaptured Sansa’s mouth as soon as they stood, holding her within his possessive embrace. One step at a time, he guided her back, down the hall; stopping occasionally only to press her against the wall, to kiss along her neck, to grind the proof of his desire against her. 

For Sansa's part, she gave as good as she got; wresting the buttons of his shirt open, running the dainty tips of her fingers through the wiry hair of his chest. Their downward progress stopped only by the presence of his belt. Even so, that was not barrier enough to cease her taunting. Flowing over the smooth material, her palms searched for the stiffened member that only moments before pressed urgently between the apex of her thighs. When it was at last found, she abruptly cupped him, revealing her need to him in the best way she knew how. She felt as his lips hissed against her neck from the contact; felt as his hands on her waist tightened, bordering just shy of painful, at her bold caress. The sound, the feel, sent a jolt of desire coursing straight to her core. 

It was all panting breaths, and yearning moans. Sansa was intimately familiar with lust, but this was so much more potent. Maybe it was the alcohol that still pumped through their veins, heightening their senses. Maybe it was just chemistry. Only one thing was clear, it was an all consuming need that she was certain could level several city blocks if it could not be sated. 

When at last, they finally crashed into his bedroom, smooth digits worked their way under the thin camisole Sansa wore. Heated palms grazed over supple flesh, teasing along the underside of her breast with his thumbs. They branded her further as the garment was slipped up and off, and he let out a groan of approval as each inch of pale skin was revealed. 

There was an animalistic glint to his gaze as his hands skimmed over Sansa’s sides, and it sent a ripple of exhilarating anticipation throughout her limbs. He pulled her flush against him, and the feel of his skin against her’s was an intoxicant in itself. She shifted his opened shirt beyond his shoulders to pool in the floor, determined that she should feel all of him. She scraped her nails over the planes of his chest, luxuriating in the scorching presence of his body against hers. A growl rumbled from his throat at her touch, and his head bowed to lave down the column of her throat, biting lightly when he reached her shoulder. The scratch of his beard as he trailed lips along the tops of her pert breast caused her body to keen and arch into his assault. Her nails scraped through the dark, curly hair at his nape when he dipped lower, encircling her lace covered nipple with his mouth. And when he gently raked his teeth over the sensitive peak, Sansa found she had no will to resist him in anything. An urgent plea for more escaped lips. She was willing to let him take her there, harsh and rough against the cold, hardwood floor if he liked. Comfort be damned! 

The gentleman slunk down to his knees, trailing open mouthed kisses along the soft plane of Sansa’s stomach, his stubble leaving a path of red welts in its wake, until he reached the waist of her jeans. He looked up at her expectantly, silently asking permission to continue. His face was worshipful, and his eyes were so black she thought, if she were to fall into them she might drown. The sight was enough to make her breath catch in her throat, and the relentless throb between her legs ached painfully for his touch. 

With a quivering breath, Sansa nodded, and his lithe hands followed her instruction. Inflaming her senses, they smoothed down to release her from the constricting garment. The button was popped free, and the _click, click, click_ as he drew down her zipper might have sent her into a state of apoplexy if it hadn't been swiftly followed by the wet caress of his mouth against her pubic bone where her fly lay open. His fingers worked deftly between the stiff denim and the skin of her hips until he was able to drag the offending article down, catching her cottony knickers along the way. 

Sansa fought the sting of self-consciousness that threatened. She hadn't planned for this, and with no need to trim, she’d allowed the red below to grow a bit wild. That, however, did not seem to displease her gentleman friend. He glided his hands expertly up the back of her thighs, and gripped the fullness of her bottom, kneading it wantonly. His digits edged so close to where Sansa needed him. She could feel her arousal seeping out, lubricating her swollen sex; could smell the tang of it in the air. His forehead bent to rest against her abdomen, and she heard as he took in a deep, halting breath. She barely had time to feel his fine hair run through her fingers before he dipped his tongue to lap between her folds, and her shocked exhale shattered well-kissed lips.

“Fuck, sweetling!” he exclaimed, his voice pitched gravelly and low. “You have no idea of the things I want to do to you.”

Sansa could feel the licentious rumble of his tone even now, and a shiver traversed her spine in response. She needed to move. She could not relive this here. Her body was already thrumming with a need to march back into the bedroom and have him again. However, the smarter, more practical part of herself knew she needed to leave. 

With boots finally laced, Sansa tugged her sweater back over her now borderline obscene camisole, and grabbed her navy peacoat off the back of an armchair where she'd deposited it. After shrugging it onto her shoulders and lifting her hair out of the way, she snuck out the front door, closing it as silently behind her. 

As she made to button up, Sansa felt a jingle in her pocket. Reaching inside she felt the keys to her flat, her phone which she pulled out (With twenty-two percent left on the charge! Thank you Jesus!), and what’s more, she found her identification and debit card. 

Fuck. 

It was just Sansa’s luck. She didn't lose her purse. She had been so rip roaring drunk last night, she forgot she never brought the damn thing to begin with. This would not have been a problem if Margaery hadn’t abandoned her to go get her jollies off. Unfortunately, there was nothing to be done about it; not that she was wholly _displeased_ by the course her evening took, even if it did leave her in a bit of a lurch now.

When Sansa reached to retrieve her house keys, she encountered something unexpected. Retrieving the piece of cardstock, she found a phone number in a tight, neat script on the back, and flipping it over, revealed a name: _Petyr Baelish, CEO, Titan Exports._

Another memory soon blindsided her at that discovery. 

_“Call me Petyr.”_

And she did--eventually.

Sansa leaned back against the brick exterior wall, half-heartedly smacking her head against it repeatedly. She had writhed under this man for the better part of the night, and she hadn’t even been able to remember his name until now. God! She was the absolute worst. She dropped the card back in her pocket, and ran an exhausted hand over her eyes to regain some semblance of composure before she set out into the neighborhood.

Sansa unlocked the screen on her phone, and pulled up the GPS. Taking in the neighborhood, she had no idea where this Baelish fellow had brought her. It was much nicer than where she currently lived, so it was unlikely that she’d encounter unsavory types harassing her. After a minute or so, the map pulled up Dundrum. 

Shit. 

She was going to have to take the bus all the way into the city proper before she could catch the train. What the hell was this guy doing all the way out in Donaghmede? Surely, there must be better pubs out this way.

Accepting her lot for the day, Sansa located the nearest transit stop a few blocks away, and began her trek there. She hadn’t taken the time to check herself in the mirror, and the glances that the neighbors were giving her as she passed made her all too aware that she was likely sporting a crazy set of racoon eyes. There was nothing to be done for it, but she attempted to use her hair to shield her face as best she could.

It took Sansa fifteen minutes to reach her destination at a brisk pace. There was no place to sit save a low wall near the stop. She jumped up to perch on it, and reached for her phone again. Sansa’s only hope was that maybe she could reach Margaery and get a ride to save herself from further embarrassment today, but the traitor’s phone just kept ringing. 

Sansa sighed as she ended the call, and shoved her phone back into her pocket. It would be awhile before the bus arrived, and she didn’t want to run the down the battery any more than necessary under the circumstances.

At first, Sansa took the time to adjust herself. She found a hair tie in one of her pockets, and swiped her chestnut locks up in it. Then, she used the reflection on the back of the bus sign to check out the state of her face. While she did have a bit of mascara run off, it wasn’t as bad as she’d thought. She licked the pad of her thumb to wipe away at the remnants of her eye makeup that had collected in the creases beneath. That done, the only thing left to her was to sit back and wait. 

It wasn’t long before Sansa’s mind began to wander to again to her gentleman--to Petyr. In her twenty-three years, she had never had a one night stand. She had never felt the compunction to even attempt such a thing. Somehow, she didn’t think what happened last night was a normal occurrence for such an event. Not from the stories she’d heard from Margaery or Asha, at least.

Closing her eyes, Sansa could still feel the give in the mattress as he laid her down amidst the cool sheets. Could still feel the racing of her heart while his experienced hands explored the curves and dips of her body. A blush creeped into her cheeks with the remembrance.

Sansa worried at her lip, and glanced around the street. It was mostly quiet save for the occasional stream of traffic, and she was the only person waiting for the bus. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if she indulged just a bit in the memories of last night. Her blood was already heated in expectation.

It was Petyr’s eyes that captured her attention. Once he’d lifted her onto the bed, and fully removed her jeans, Sansa couldn’t look away from them. They smoldered as he parted her thighs to reveal the glistening pink of her sex. She trembled as he pressed dry kisses to the inside of each knee, before the slow tarry of his tongue inched it’s way up her inner thigh. He nuzzled his nose against the red of her pubis, and released a warm puff of breath. It grazed her exposed clit, and the muscles of her core spasmed involuntarily from the sensation.

“What do you want, sweetling?” came his rasping voice. “What do you want me to do to you?”

Sansa thought for certain that she would melt. Petyr’s palms were rubbing and squeezing along her thighs, her ass, along her hips. It took her a moment to register that he had asked her a question.

“I… I want you to kiss me,” came her breathy reply.

“Kiss you? Kiss you where?” He eased himself up her body. “Kiss you here?” he asked, placing his lips over the rapid pulse of her throat. “Here?” His kissed the tops of her breasts. “Or how about here?” He raked his teeth along her abdomen, then dipped his tongue into her belly button. His eyes, black with lust, flashed up at her, awaiting her response.

Petyr was teasing her, and she cursed him for taunting her so. “You know where…” her weakened voice gritted out.

“Do I?” He asked with a devious grin.

Sansa didn’t deign him with an answer. Instead, she raked her fingers through his salt and pepper hair, taking a healthy grip of it on each side, and pushed him down, down, down. She could see his eyes sparkle with barely contained triumph as he took her hint. Petyr dove between her legs with an ardent furor, and she felt the hot, wet drag of his tongue along her seam. The whine that emitted from her throat refused to be contained.

Petyr ravenously devoured her flesh; sucking and nipping at her clit. Dredging the depths of her folds with slick muscle; teasing at her entrance, and lapping up every drop of her arousal. Sansa was unable to control her hips as they jerked and thrust against his artful tongue, nor fend off the cries of pure bliss that drifted past her lips. The flames of kindling that burned hot at her center were quickly intensifying. 

It was ecstasy. 

It was torment. 

And just when Sansa thought that she was was cresting the peak, Petyr plunged two fingers within her, and pumped them in a harsh rhythm, keeping pace with the swirls he made against her clit. Sansa wailed, and knotted her fingers into his hair, grinding herself wantonly into him. Quicker than she thought possible, she was pushed over the edge. She was floating. She was flying. Then, she was falling back to earth. All the while, Petyr lavished attention over her sex; soothing it with deft caresses from his tongue and lips.

Sansa couldn’t see for the stars behind her eyes, but when her vision cleared, Petyr was there, hovering above her, encasing her with his arms on each side. His long fingers tenderly stroked through the mess of brown curls that haloed her head as she came down from the euphoric high, and she could feel the cold metal of his belt buckle where it rested unyielding and hard against the flat of her stomach. The contrasting sensations sent a shiver through her limbs.

Petyr nudged his nose along her jaw, her cheek, until it grazed against her own. “Is that what you had in mind, Miss Stone?” Petyr grated into her ear, his throat still hoarse from his earlier activity.

Sansa hummed her approval, and slicked her hands down the musculature of Petyr’s back. Her head lifted to his so she might show him just how _grateful_ she was for his assistance. She brushed her lips over the stubble on his chin, feeling the wetness that caught there from his extremely skillful demonstration, and when their mouths finally joined, she tasted her own musky tang on his breath. For some reason it startled her, but it wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, it served as a considerate reminder regarding _his_ current state of _need._

The material that covered his own libertine arousal was becoming damp as Petyr ground it deliberately between her legs. His hands were tantalizing every delicate pieces of skin they could find; sweeping over her arms, her back, down towards the curve of her bottom. And accompanying each caress came a press of his lips; dry pecks and lascivious nips against spellbound flesh. Sansa wanted to succumb to his meticulous advances, drown in the affection he was submerging her in, but the desire to torture him as he did her was overwhelming. 

“You’re getting ahead of yourself, _Mr. Baelish_ ,” Sansa said, baiting him with a wolfish grin.

Petyr purred as he ripped his lips from her neck, giving one last nip before gazing at her. “Is that so? And didn’t I tell you to call me Petyr?” he grumbled.

Sansa ran her palms from his commanding hands all the way up to his shoulders, in an effort to sooth the sexy beast. “You may have mentioned it. Though, I don’t recall agreeing to do so,” she teased. “But as I was saying… it seems to me there is still an item to subtract from this equation.” Giving a gentle press to his shoulder, Sansa ordered, “On your back, sir.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Petyr said with a mocking smirk. Without warning, he yanked Sansa over the top of him as he rolled onto his back. She squealed and gave him an indignant slap to the chest, before he captured her head and covered her mouth with his own. They lost themselves in the passion of the moment, before Sansa remembered herself and broke away from him with a panting moan. She straddled his hips and pinned down the hands that threatened to undo her all over again.

Sansa rested her forehead against his, breathing in the mint and musk coating his sighs, and repeated his question back to him with a suggestive quirk to her brow, “What do you want me to do to you, Mr. Baelish?”

A low, rumbling laugh reverberated in against her ear. “I didn’t realize we were playing _that_ game,” he said as his hips jerked up to strike the bundle of nerves at her center. Sansa cried out and arched her back at the sudden twinging ache.

Leering back down at him she said, “That wasn’t fair.” 

“Life isn’t fair,” he countered with a devilish grin.

At that, Sansa pushed herself off him, biting her lip provocatively. She slid down his body to position herself between his knees. Her delicate fingers stroking airy paths through the coarse hair of his chest, down the plank of his abdomen, to ghost along the edge of his pants. Carefully, she drew the strap of his belt out, and unfastened the buckle that held up the last barrier to their evening’s amusements. Petyr lifted his pelvis in an attempt to aid her efforts, and she tugged his pants over his lean hips and down his legs. 

Sansa held up his trousers and boxers triumphantly before stretching out her slender arm to drop them unceremoniously to the floor. “ _Now_ we’re ready to play,” she said with a quiet laugh.

Blue eyes traveled down the vee of his torso, and settled on the sight of his cock, engorged and red, bobbing between his legs. She swiped the pad of her finger up the pulsing vein of his shaft, and all Petyr’s earlier bravado faded as he let out a jagged breath. When she finally took him entirely within her palm, his arm came flying up to cover his eyes, and a breathy groan slipped past his throat. This power was intoxicating. The more pressure she applied with her movements, the shallower Petyr’s breathing became. It seemed the more controlled her actions, the more he began to unravel. 

Petyr finally removed his arm from his face so that he could look down to witness what Sansa was doing to him. As her blue eyes met his, she dipped her head to lick the hardened shaft that strained between his legs. He threw his head back with a pained moan, and gripped the silky strands on her head. She loved this part, when a man willingly ceded all his power to her. Her slender fingers smooth down to grip him around the base of his erection, and she angled him towards her mouth. Pre-cum had already begun to accumulate on his tip, and she gave him a tentative open mouthed kiss before guiding him between her lips. It was salty, but the taste diminished as more of her saliva coated him. The simple act of slicking her mouth over his shaft was enough to make her dripping wet. He was moaning and thrusting incoherently beneath her as she enveloped his cock, over, and over, and over again. When he glanced down to watch her brown head bounce, his fingers tangled more firmly in her hair, and she knew that he was close. Her cheeks hollowed out sharply as she gave him a long, hard suck.

Petyr yanked her back by the strands wrapped around his hands. “Oh fuck. Fuck!” he panted. “Stop, sweetling. Stop.” He guided Sansa back up and met her halfway, brushing his lips over her own. “I… I need to be inside you,” he growled. “ _Now._ ”

“Oh, god yes!” moaned Sansa as his teeth scraped along her shoulder. Her cunt was throbbing for the friction only he could provide. “Condoms?”

“In the nightstand,” Petyr said as he gestured to the opposite side of the bed.

Sansa crawled over him on her hands and knees. As she pulled the drawer open, she heard the rustle of sheets, and felt a dip in the bed behind her. Her quarry located, she rose up, only to feel one of Petyr’s hands come up and around her waist to settle on her stomach, pressing her back against him. The other moved her hair to the side so he could litter the skin of her neck and shoulder with soft kisses. The laughter she felt rising in her throat turned to a moan as she felt his slickened cock grind between the cheeks of her bottom.

Petyr’s free hand then came up to encompass her, cupping her breast and tweaking the nipple. It sent a jolt of longing straight to her cunt, and Sansa whimpered as she her head rolled back to rest on his shoulder. “How do you want it, sweetling?” he said, nipping at the curl of her ear. “Slow and sweet? Or fast and rough?” he growled.

The timbre of his voice damn near brought her back to the peak of orgasmic bliss. She couldn’t speak; couldn’t catch her breath. 

Petyr seemed to be all too aware of her predicament, and chose for her. “I think,” he said, dipping a hand to play between her legs. “You need a good, rough fuck. Am I right?”

“Fuck, yes,” Sansa moaned as she arched into him.

One of Petyr’s hands swept out to take the proffered prophylactic from her outstretched palm, and the other was used to guide her face down into the mattress. Sansa heard the crinkle and tear of the wrapper, as he got himself ready. She turned her head to spy over her shoulder, and saw his face deep in concentration as he rolled the condom onto his sizable erection. When he spotted her looking him, she bit her lip and gave him her best flirtatious smile, and began rocking enticingly back and forth, giving her arse a little wiggle.

The smile Petyr gave her was downright lecherous as he playfully smacked her backside. “Naughty minx.”

Sansa yelped at the sharp strike, and was quickly overcome by a fit of giggles from the surprise. Warm palms soothed over the reddening mark, and blazed a trail over her hips to pull her back into him. The tip of his shaft slipped and teased between her folds, as he continued to rock with her. Each movement forward brought him into contact with her swollen clit, and Sansa fought back a whine every time he eased back.

Petyr ran one of his hands over her spine, and leaned down to caress the sensitive column with his lips. Half moaning he asked, “Are you ready, my little wildcat?”

Sansa let out an irritated laugh as she called out behind her. “Is the Pope Catholic?”

The words had barely left her mouth before he thrust himself into her. They both gasped.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” he blasphemed.

Sansa’s breath came in labored, stuttering bursts. Petyr was thick, and he filled her so completely that her eyes watered. It had been over a year since she last had sex, and the sudden intrusion of his cock struck an almost painful chord. He began to ease in and out of her, building a slow pace designed to incite her appetite. Each deft stroke within her left Sansa clinging to the edge of paradise, but he wasn’t thrusting hard enough to do more than stoke the flame. Sansa needed more, and at a loss for words, she tried to encourage him by reaching behind to grip at his hand, mewling softly every time his hips pressed into her.

“Fuck, sweetling. You’re so _tight_ ,” he rasped. “I don’t know how long I’ll be able to last.”

“Then you better make it count,” Sansa growled back at him with a kittenish grin.

 _That_ got him moving. Sansa saw the determination set in his face before she felt the bite of his nails in fleshy curve of her bottom. Petyr’s hold on her tightened, and he pounded feverishly into her. Yes! This is what she was missing. She impaled herself back onto him with each powerful thrust; riding him to her own satisfaction. The slap of skin against skin as he took her roughly from behind echoed amidst the moans, groans, and cries of their pleasure. Their bodies feasting upon each other as though this was the finest delicacy.

Petyr grunted with each strenuous drive into her welcoming cunt, and beads of sweat were forming on his brow. His movements became more and more frantic as the urge to come came impossibly closer. Sansa began to lose her balance as his hips arrhythmic tempo became harder and harder to predict. She collapsed into the bed, and the thrust of his hips followed. Bracing himself on either side of her, he snapped and rolled his hips, deepening the stroke of his cock, filling her to the hilt. Sansa could feel as his erection swelled and hardened inside her. He was losing the battle against his own need for release. She wasn’t far behind him, already worked to a frenzy beforehand. One of his hand came around to find hers, and guided it down between her legs to curl against her swollen clit. It was a silent plea for help.

Petyr growled into her ear, “Say my name, sweetling” He retracted himself almost all the way out of her, and a cry of protest left her throat. “I want to hear it screaming from your lips as you come. _Please._ ” Sansa nodded, and he slammed into her again, knocking the wind from her lungs. But it was the sound of his arrogant voice begging ( _begging!_ ) that sent her over the edge. True to her word, she called out his name. It spilled forth from her lips, a gushing anguished cry of ecstasy. The spasms of her slippery walls groped hard onto his hammering cock, and he soon followed her with a pained groan. He collapsed onto her, breath blowing hard and quick over her sweat slicked flesh. 

With the needs of her body quenched, Sansa let the drowsy lethargy of satiation pull her deeply into its grasp. The warm caress of Petyr’s lips ran along Sansa’s shoulders and neck. She recalled his tender praise of how beautiful she was, how utterly fantastic, and then a muffled curse as he finally pulled himself free of her, but her consciousness blanked out as his voice continued on. The lids of her eyes were leaden, and they sealed shut to slip into the sweet embrace of sleep.

The raucous screech of the bus stopping woke Sansa up from her reverie. She could feel the flush in her face, but there wasn’t much she could do about that now. She hopped down off the wall, and ascended the steps into the cabin, swiping her transit card as she went. She walked about halfway down the aisle before she plopped down into a seat.

Normally, the transit was clamoring with activity, but being early on a Saturday, it seemed almost peaceful. At least, she had that going for her. After a few minutes, the driver closed the door and released the brakes. The engine hummed loudly, and the cabin rocked to and fro as it picked up speed.

There was a buzzing in her coat, and Sansa retrieved her phone to see there was a message.

Margaery: Hey! Sorry I missed your call! What’s up?

Sansa: I needed a ride, but I’m already on the bus, so don’t worry about it.

Margaery: A ride? Where are you?  
Margaery: Or were you?

Sansa: Dundrum

Margaery: Dundrum? What are you doing out there this early?  
Margaery: Omg. Did you hook up with someone last night?

Sansa: That’s not really any of your business.

Margaery: Omg! You did!  
Margaery: I’m so proud!  
Margaery: My baby girl is all grown up!11!  
Margaery: Now spill! I want deets!  
Margaery: Was it good? :D  
Margaery: Was it terrible? :x  
Margaery: Come on! I’m dying here!

Sansa: It was…  
Sansa: It was really amazing.

Margaery: Yay! *happy dance*  
Margaery: Did you get his number?  
Margaery: Seriously, girl. Good ons come once in a blue moon.  
Margaery: You gotta keep hitting that.

Sansa: ons?

Margaery: One night stands  
Margaery: Sorry. Forgot you aren’t Asha. LOL

Sansa: :P  
Sansa: And yes, I have his number.  
Sansa: But I don’t think we’ll meet up again

Margaery: Why not? :(

Sansa: He’s older

Margaery: Like how older?  
Margaery: 10 years?  
Margaery: 15?  
Margaery: Omg Sansa plz tell me you didn’t hook up with someone’s grandpa?

Sansa: Ewwww no  
Sansa: He’s probably around my parents age  
Sansa: Maybe a few years younger

Margaery: Oh well that’s not bad  
Margaery: I mean your dad is still hella hot and he’s like 50

Sansa: Omg Marge stop  
Sansa: Gross

Margaery: What? I’m just sayin

Sansa: And you can cease now  
Sansa: Fuck me 

Margaery: I would, but someone already did ;)

Sansa: ugh  
Sansa: You’re the worst

Margaery: oh plz  
Margaery: You’d be bored without me  
Margaery: Anyway…  
Margaery: I’m just saying that if the sex was that good it wouldn’t hurt to keep the guy around  
Margaery: There’s no law saying you have to be in a relationship

Sansa: You know that’s not how I work

Margaery: No offense, hon, but how you work sucks  
Margaery: Need I remind you of Harry, Joff and Ramsay?

Sansa: Ramsay was a stalker  
Sansa: He doesn’t count

Margaery: Whatever  
Margaery: Point stands

Sansa: :/

Margaery: Since I won’t be convincing you of the merits of casual sex…  
Margaery: Where’s your bus stopping?  
Margaery: Tommy and I can pick you up.

Sansa: Dublin center  
Sansa: But it’ll be at least an hour before I get there  
Sansa: And my phones battery is running low

Margaery: Ok  
Margaery: I’ll stop bugging you then  
Margaery: Text me when your close

Sansa: K, see ya soon <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, apologies to any Irish readers. I tried my best to read up on the geography and demographics of Dublin, but I'm sure it fell horribly flat. Also took liberties with the public transit system. If it's glaringly awful, please let me know, and I'll do my best to fix the issues.
> 
> Secondly, shout out to WriterChick and expected_aberrance for looking this over in its various stages of completion. The help is appreciated!
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy the smut and be merry. :)


	2. Chapter 2

“You can’t just make blanket statements like that,” argued Sansa. They had been at this for the last ten minutes.

“It’s true though. How can women hope to stand on equal footing with men if we are constantly held up as sexual objects?” said the dark haired woman across from her.

Asha was a close friend, but when she went on one of her militant feminist diatribes, Sansa wanted to strangle her. She was very much like Arya, only without the familial ties and the quiet urge to murder everyone in sight. Her cohort could be articulate and insightful, as well as crass and sarcastic, but it was difficult for Sansa to fathom just how harsh she could be against her own sex.

Sansa thoughtfully stirred her tea, trying to decide how to approach this subject without alienating her friend. “Okay, I agree to an extent, but saying that an actress posing nude is anti-feminist is ridiculous. Isn’t it more anti-feminist to question her choice to do so? If she wants to take control of her sexuality, what business is that of yours?” said Sansa, trying desperately to maintain her patience.

“Oh, she can pose nude all she wants. I certainly won’t complain,” Asha raised her drink and laughed, “but it absolutely sets back feminism. She’s playing to the patriarchal constructs that embody Hollywood and that whole,” her fingers flit through the air, “experience. She can argue all she wants that she’s ‘taking control of her sexuality’ as you put it, but it doesn’t make it true. She’s an actress, and that culture is all based on how badly the guys in the audience want to fuck you. The girl is selling herself as a sexual object. It’s just how it is.” She leaned back in the booth with a self-satisfied smirk, as though what she was saying was some universal truth; as though sexuality could suddenly be eradicated from the human species. 

Asha’s arrogance irked, and Sansa snorted her derision. “So by your definition of feminism, if a woman so much as dares pose with a nipple exposed, she’s basically a whore looking out for her next paycheck. How the hell is that feminist? Who are you to judge her choices? Feminism is supposed to be about equality, freedom to choose for yourself, but you’re judging her choice based on some arbitrary rules of feminism that exclude a whole swath of women. You may as well say we shouldn’t wear dresses, or heels, or makeup while we’re at it. Clearly, we’re just trying to get some man’s attention.” The spoon she had been using hit the tabletop with thunderous clang, and Sansa flinched. She normally tried not to let her feelings get the better of her in these discussions, but she was particularly irritable today, and Asha acting like a total arse didn’t help.

A pint of brown ale was lifted to Asha’s lips and she took a hearty swig of it before continuing. “Well maybe you shouldn’t,” she posited. “Have you even questioned why you feel the need to wear those things?” Her eyebrow raised almost imperceptibly, and Sansa made a note to shave it off next time she caught her passed out drunk.

Sansa was sufficiently galled. More than galled, she was irate. “Are you being serious right now?! I wear dresses because I like them. I like fashion. It’s like art you can wear. And I feel more confident when I look nice.”

Asha bent her head and gave it a slow, purposeful shake. “Operant conditioning.” 

Sansa’s eye widen in disbelief. Did her friend really think this little of her? “Pardon me?”

“It makes you feel confident because it garners you positive attention.” Asha dropped the statement as though it was a fact, and not at all subject to her own biases against anything relegated to the societal structures of femininity.

Sansa made to dispute her utterly fallacious statement. “That is no--” 

“Isn’t it?” Asha cut her off, leaning back, waving the drink in her hand dismissively. “If you had never worn a dress and had someone tell you how pretty you looked, would you still be wearing dresses?”

“Christ. It’s just round and round with you.” Sansa said with annoyance. She took a sip of her mint tea to calm the discord in her stomach. “Can I not enjoy that dresses are more comfortable in summer? Am I not allowed to put my best face forward by covering up the blemishes that bother me?”

“And the heels?” Asha barked back. “They’re a goddamn tripping hazard. There is no reason for anyone to ever wear heels.”

“Speak for yourself. They make my arse look amazing!” Margaery said coming up on the table. Within the mantle of their little group, she had taken on the role of surrogate mother since she was eldest, despite her more lascivious proclivities. Sipping on the straw of her fruity drink, she plunked down into the seat next to Asha. “So what are we talking about?”

Sansa spoke first. “Oh, Asha is just explaining to me how all my choices are a manufactured construct by the patriarchy, and that making the choice to show any bit of skin is a crime against feminism.”

Asha shrugged. “Basically.”

“Oh dear god.” Margaery gave Asha her best stink eye. “Next thing you’ll say is that pornography is anti-feminist even though I know for a fact that you look at it regularly,” Margaery fussed.

“Only from all female producers.” The comment fell flat as defense, and Asha, cognizant of the failing, threw back a deep gulp from her drink.

Margaery tilted her head in Asha’s direction, throwing some serious shade. “And how is that different?”

“They’re taking back the industry,” contended Asha, “making it safer for women, and they aren’t catering to the male audience.”

“Oh please spare me.” Margaery flicked her hand in Asha’s direction. “Just because it’s mostly girl on girl does NOT mean it isn’t catering to a male audience. You’re such a fucking hypocrite.”

Sansa wanted to kiss Margaery, but settled for a high five. What dear, sweet Marge may lack in moral fiber, she more than made up with her sharp tongue; unafraid to call even her best friends on their bullshit. That forthrightness was the one thing that drew Sansa into their odd friendship, though she loathed when it was aimed in her direction. Which, thankfully, was not often. 

“Fine. Maybe I’m a little hypocritical, but it doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” Asha sipped her beer. Seemingly desperate to change the topic, she asked, “No luck at the bar?”

“No,” Margaery sighed. “My mojo must be off something fierce since I split with Tommy. I was throwing everything I had at the silver fox, and didn’t even get a drink out of it.” She slouched down into the booth and pouted.

“Maybe you’re gaydar is off. Which guy was it?” Sansa asked.

“The guy on the far side, sitting at the end.” Margaery indicated with a tip of her head.

Sansa looked over her shoulder to see silver temples and a sharp profile, and felt her cheeks flame as recognition washed over her. She turned quickly back around and ducked her head behind her hand. “Oh my god, that’s him,” she whispered, as though somehow he could hear everything through the raucous noise around them.

“Wait, wait,” Margaery said throwing her hand flat on the table between them. “That’s him?!” Her eyes were shining with barely contained mirth.

“That’s who?” Asha asked in confusion, looking over Sansa’s head.

“That’s baby’s first one night stand,” Margaery filled in for her, sporting a cheshire grin. 

Sansa thought for sure she was going to vomit. The churning that had plagued her stomach all day was intensifying and the threat of bile rose in her throat. She took a shaky sip of her mint tea, hoping to ease the building tension, if only long enough to escape. “I need to get out of here. I can’t face him.”

Margaery covered her hand in an attempt to soothe. “It’s been over a month, sweetie. Maybe he doesn’t remember what you look like,” she quietly placated.

“If I remember what he looks like, I’m certain he remembers what I look like,” Sansa said. “Please, you’ve got to distract him so I can leave. I can’t deal with this right now.”

Margaery’s face looked apologetic. “Honey, I already struck out with him. If I head over there it’s going to be way too awkward, even for me.” She eyed Asha.

Asha had been deep in her cups, half-heartedly listening to the conversation happening in front of her, when she caught Margaery’s look.“What? No. Come on, seriously? You’re looking at me to distract him?” She gestured up and down her body incredulously. “Lesbian here!” she said with a raise of her brows.

“Please, Asha,” Sansa begged. “I will owe you so big. You’re not going to sleep with him. Hell, you don't even have to flirt with him. Just keep his eyes away from my direction. Don’t make me get on my knees and beg.”

“Fine.” Asha threw up her hands and stood. Pointing at Sansa, “But you’re buying my drinks for the next month.” Her toned made it clear it was non-negotiable, and Sansa had no mind to argue.

“Deal!” Sansa waved her hand, willing the woman to get to work. “Now go!” she pushed.

Her disgruntled friend quietly flicked her off with a sour face before she walked over to distract Petyr from Sansa’s getaway. Margaery watched as their friend sidled up to the man with an overly friendly smile, and waved down the bartender for a beer.

“Is it safe to move yet?” Sansa asked with her head still tucked down.

Shaking her head, “Not yet. She doesn’t have his full attention. He looks like he’s trying to shrug her off,” said Margaery. “Well, at least you know he doesn’t sleep around.” She grinned. The comment was meant to be droll, Sansa knew, but she couldn’t bring herself to see the humor in the situation, and rolled her eyes. 

The sound of glass breaking, a stool flipping, and the hoots and hollers of the attendant patrons echoed over to them. 

“Oh shit!” Margaery’s eyes widen, and she jumped out of her seat. “That’s our cue to go.” She grabbed Sansa’s arm, and shielded her as they rushed towards the exit.

Sansa’s heart was hammering in her chest, but she spied over her shoulder as they were crossing the threshold, and saw Asha repentantly trying to wipe a spill from the front of Petyr’s trousers, stuttering with an over-the-top apology, and him attempting to reassure her everything was fine as he pushed her away. The crowd that stood to witness the spectacle began to dissipate, and Sansa was internally celebrating Asha’s success, but before she turned away from the scene, grey-green snapped to her. 

Oh shit.

Adrenaline pushed fresh and hot through her veins; all thought to her ailing health forgotten. “We need to run,” Sansa said, gripping Margaery’s hand.

“What?” Margaery squeaked out, as her friend pulled her along into a swift jog, heels and all.

“He saw me, Marge! Pick up the pace!” Sansa let go of her friend and broke out into a full speed run down the block, into an alley, hoping against hope that he hadn’t the presence of mind or desire to follow her. She struggled to catch her breath, and the sound of her friend’s heels clacked hard against the pavement behind her. 

Sansa’s stomach roiled until she couldn’t keep it down anymore. She bent in half, bracing one hand against the brick, until the contents of everything she’d eaten that day was vacated onto the asphalt. As the last of it came tumbling out, she felt gentle hands smooth back her hair, and rub the space between her shoulder blades in comfort. Sansa coughed and sputtered, trying to spit the foul taste from her mouth.

“Are you okay?” Margaery asked with concern lighting her features.

Sansa wiped the remnants of sick from her mouth with the back of her sleeve, still slightly bent at the waist. “I will be. He didn’t follow us, did he?” she asked, looking to her friend with a worried gaze. 

“No, I don’t think so.” Marge rummaged in her purse, and pulled out a bottle. “Here, drink this. It’ll help.”

Sansa’s limbs were shaking, but she took the water gratefully, and took a deep swill, before spitting it out violently. Her eyes watered from the astringent sting coating her mouth. Coughing she asked, “Is that vodka?!”

“Oh shit! Sorry!” She reached in and produced a different bottle this time. Margaery exchanged the bottles with a chagrined expression. “This one should be water.”

Sansa sipped at the next bottle a bit more cautiously, but was relieved when it was, in fact, water. It washed away some of the horrid aftertaste that lingered in her mouth, but as it settled into her gut, Sansa feared it might come back up again. She supported herself against the cold, brick wall and willed herself to swallow it down until it calmed again.

They sat there for a good few minutes while Sansa composed herself, before Margaery spoke up, “I’m gonna ask again, and I want an honest answer. Are you okay?”

“What?” Sansa said a bit breathless. 

“Well you just heaved your stomach up all over the ground. That’s not really a normal reaction to avoiding someone you slept with once,” Marge pointed out. 

Sansa waved away her worries. “I’m fine.” Her friend’s brown eyes bore into her, decidedly unconvinced. “No really. I think I picked up the stomach bug that’s going around work. I’ve felt like shit all day. This just… exacerbated the issue.”

“If you say so.” Marge acquiesced. 

“Should I be worried?” Sansa asked. Confusion furrowed Margaery’s brow, so Sansa supplied, “Vodka in a water bottle?”

“Oh! No. I'm no alcoholic,” Marge assured. “It's a remnant of my days with Tommy. It was the only way I could get through a day with his mother--evil bitch.” And at the remembrance, Marge noticed she still held the vodka in her hand, twisting it this way and that between her fingers. Her brown eyes flit around until she found the nearest trash receptacle, at which point she stomped over and tossed the bottle in. “There. Last official piece of Tommy wiped from my life.” She was smiling, but Sansa noticed it didn't reach her eyes. Mojo off, indeed. 

Sansa pushed away from the brick and took a few tentative steps on weak legs. Her ankles were actively working against her, even in the flats she wore, as she wobbled forward. Margaery, taking pity on her friends poor state, strode forward and wrapped Sansa's arm over her shoulder. “Come on. My car’s around the corner. I'll give you a ride home, but please warn me if you're going to spew.”

* * *

Sansa didn't throw up again that first night, but as the sun came up the next day, so did her stomach. And the next. And the next. Pretty soon a week had passed where she'd barely managed to swallow more than ginger tea and a weak chicken broth. So when she woke up the following Saturday morning with renewed energy and her stomach no longer doing somersaults, she praised heaven, thankful that the plague from hell had finally passed.

Today was a day for cleaning. Sansa immediately started by extinguishing all possible sources of potential contamination from her living space. She would be damned if she’d risk herself catching that again. The inside of the kitchen gloves Sansa wore grew damp with perspiration from her efforts, and she could feel the skin of her fingers pucker from the extensive contact. Yet, she continued to scrub on, her arms growing weaker with each push and pull of the sponge. 

Unable to attend work, Sansa came to rely on darling Margaery to come by every day to check on her and make sure she ate something. Half the time, it seemed to come back up, but today for the first time in what seemed forever, Sansa actually awoke up with an appetite.

The buzz at the door forced Sansa to abandon her quest for cleanliness, and she slipped off the purple gloves with a snap, grabbing a towel to wipe the condensation from her hands as she made her way to the door. Upon its opening, Sansa saw Margaery standing there with cheerful smile, brown bag in one hand, and carrier of coffee in the other. 

“Oh, you are an angel!” Sansa proclaimed, stepping aside so Margaery could enter.

Her friend gave her a once over as she passed. “You look better today. How’re you feeling?”

“Hungry,” said Sansa with half a laugh.

“Good!” Marge said, setting out the food on the counter top. “I brought food and coffee. I’ll feel ten times better about you if we can get something solid in that belly of yours.”

Sansa smiled as she took up a croissant sandwich and began to unwrap it. The smell of bacon hit her senses as it was revealed, and the sickly sweet and salty smell caused her stomach to lurch. She clasped a hand over her mouth, willing it to stay down, but quickly realized she’d already lost. She ran the length of the hall and into the bathroom to vomit the nothing that was in her stomach up. The involuntary reflexes of the muscles in her abdomen kept trying and trying to wretch up the acid and bile, and Sansa had trouble regaining the control needed to catch her breath.

Finally, it seemed to pass and Sansa cursed as she hung out over the sink, scooping water into her mouth, washing out the taste in a ritual she wished she was far less familiar with.

Margaery looked on the scene with pity in her eyes. “So much for feeling better,” she laconically stated, as she leaned against the door jam.

“Damn it,” Sansa whispered. “I was feeling better. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” She flipped off the water and ran her hands through her hair.

Placing a hand to her hip, Margaery let out a sorrowful sigh. “I was really hoping I was wrong.”

“Huh?” Sansa straightened and turned to examine her friend. “What do you mean?”

Margaery stepped forward, and pushed on Sansa’s breast suddenly.

Sansa flinched back, and covered her tits. “The fuck was that Marge?”

“Did it hurt?” she asked with a raise of her brow.

“Yes, it hurt!” Sansa said indignantly. “You punched me in the boob!” She rubbed at the swollen flesh trying to sooth away the ache.

“I barely pressed against you. I think you’re pregnant, San.”

“I’m not pregnant. I’m not even sleeping with anyone,” Sansa argued, disbelief and indignation playing across her face.

“But you did,” Marge stated. “What was it? Seven? Eight weeks ago? You have morning sickness, sweetie.”

Sansa crossed her arms, trying desperately to ignore the sense her friend was making. “We used a condom. It was safe.”

“Sure it was, honey.” Margaery exited the washroom and grabbed up her purse, riffling for something.

Sansa followed her protesting, hand held adamantly to her chest. “I am not pregnant. I think I would know.”

Margaery grasped her hand and clapped a box down into her open palm. “Then prove it. Prove me wrong,” she said exasperated with Sansa’s childish display.

“A pregnancy test?” Sansa questioned. “Do you just keep these lying around in your purse?”

“No. I’ve had my suspicions for awhile. I stopped by the pharmacy on the way over,” she explained.

Sansa just stared at the box, her lips making a silent ‘o’ in response. “I’m not pregnant,” she weakly insisted. “And I’ll take your damn test to prove it.” She shook the box at her friend and marched off towards the loo.

Margaery went back into the kitchen, wrapped up the bacon sandwich to put away, and pulled out the other offering. She grabbed the drinks and the bacon free sandwich on the coffee table, before opening a window to circulate the air in the room. A little cloth bare armchair called out to her and she settled into it. Her heels were summarily kicked off and she crossed her legs, sipping at the caffeine as she waited for Sansa to emerge.

Sansa extended the white and purple pregnancy test out to Margaery when she entered, and Margaery rolled her eyes. “Don’t hand it to me. I don’t want your pee stick,” Marge grumbled. 

“Ugh!” Sansa threw it on the coffee table in front of Margery in agitation. “I’m not pregnant,” she reiterated.

“Sure you aren’t,” Marge placated. “Here,” she handed over the croissant, “Egg, cheese, and avocado. No bacon.” She gave Sansa a half smile.

Sansa took the flakey, eggy goodness, grateful to have something she might be able to keep down, and Marge scooched a coffee in her direction as well. Taking a bite, Sansa relished the feel of it as it filled the empty pit of her stomach, noticing as she did that the churning from before had subsided. She reached out for the coffee, took a sip, and her face screwed up.

Her mouth twisted in disgust. “What is this?” Sansa complained, eying the paper cup skeptically.

“Decaf,” Marge supplied.

“Dear god, why?!” She slammed the cup back in the table, recoiling from the poisonous liquid. “It's an abomination to mankind.”

“Better get used to it. That's as close to caffeine as you'll be coming for a while,” Marge joked. 

Sansa made a moue of protest, and when her jaw set to argue the point, her friend cut her with a dismissive wave. “Yes, yes, I know. You're not pregnant,” she states sardonically. Sansa nodded and fell back into her own seat. 

Margaery allowed her another moment of peaceful eating before she finally asked. “What are you going to do if you’re-”

“I’m not.” Sansa cut her off.

Marge rolled her eyes. “If, hypothetically, you are pregnant, what are you going to do?”

Sansa looked thoughtful for a while, and sighed. “I don’t know.”

“You could leave the country. Quietly make it go away.”

“I-” Sansa’s brows knit together. “I don’t know if I could. It would make it easier, but I just… I never thought that would be something that I would have to do.”

Margaery looked down at the test on the table. “Am I right in assuming your one night stand is-- would be,” she corrected, “the father?”

“Yeah,” Sansa said with a mouth full of egg.

“Well, I hope you still have his number, sweetie. ‘Cause you’re up the duff,” she said throwing the pregnancy test at Sansa.

Sansa swallowed heavily as nervous fingers picked the test off her lap. **PREGNANT** in ominous capital letters stared up at her. She slumped into the cushiony chair, head falling back, and she closed her eyes to the world. “Shit.”

* * *

Sansa spent the rest of Saturday in a state somewhere between denial and anger. This could not be happening to her. It wasn’t fair. She was a good person. Morally upstanding even! The one time she gave into temptation, and it came back to bite her in the arse with full force. She kept trying to understand, to find some sort of explanation, but her reasonable mind came up short.

By Sunday morning, the denial and anger had faded; given way to fear. So Sansa found herself doing something she hadn’t done in a very long time: appeal to a higher power. Church was a daunting prospect. She hadn’t attended mass, outside of familial obligation, since she was a teenager. To say she was a lapsed Catholic was an understatement. It wasn’t so much that she lost faith, more that she lost trust; in the clergy, in the teachings. However, as the world was turned topsy-turvy, it was only natural to return to those steadfast, resolute foundations on which much of her formative life was built. Almost like coming home.

Donning her Sunday best, Sansa made her way to the local parish, slipping in amongst the devout congregation; seeking anonymity within the crowd. She dressed in dark, demure colors, and sat far to the back. She wasn’t interested in the sermon; lost in her own thoughts.

Margaery words echoed in her mind. Could she make it go away? Erase the mistake like graphite from paper. The morals of her youth, of her devout Catholic upbringing rattled her resolve. It was a sin to take a life; even one only partially formed and unborn. Her modern pragmatism warred with the religious teachings of her younger self, and she couldn’t help but feel like the biggest hypocrite. 

Sansa was so conflicted within herself that she didn’t even notice as the service ended, nor as the patrons filed out of the church. The rosary she clutched in her hands was twisted this way and that as she weighed the pros and cons of her predicament; finding, unsurprisingly, that the list of cons was exceedingly long. 

The vacant seat next to Sansa found itself filled without her notice.

“You seem lost.”

The deep baritone of the speaker finally broke the spell she found herself under. Glancing up, she found the parish priest, sitting next to her in his fine black robes and his immaculate white collar, staring at her with such profound interest. It was almost unnerving. Was that look something taught or was it genuine concern?

“Oh. I’m sorry, Father…” Sansa tried to remember his name from the service, but her memory failed her.

“Selmy,” the elder man provided. “My name is of no concern, my child. I am but a shepherd tending my flock. I saw you sitting alone, and thought perhaps you might be in need of counsel.”

“I… To be truthful, I’m not sure what I’m doing here.” Sansa shook her head. As she did, she noticed the ache in her hands from the inadvertent fists she’d been making all morning. She flexed the stiff digits in her lap, trying to stave off the cramps that threatened.

Father Selmy nodded and patiently waited for her to continue.

Sansa hesitated, uncertain how much she wanted to reveal, but continued on. “I find myself at a crossroads, and I’m not sure which way to turn. I can keep going down my current road with little upset to my life, or I can take a rougher path with an uncertain outcome. I'm equally frightened of both prospects, but I need to make a choice before my options are limited further.”

“That is a conundrum. And let me guess, you were hoping for some sort of divine intervention to lead the way?” Father Selmy said with an unguarded grin.

“Something like that,” she half laughed.

“I wish I could say the Lord will show himself in a ray of blinding light,” he lifted his hands to the ceiling, “and angels will sing, and you’ll magically know what to do.” Then, he looked more seriously at her, “But that’s not how our Lord works. You know that.”

“I know.” Sansa said. “I’m not sure why I came. It’s silly, really.”

“It’s not,” Father Selmy protested. “We’re taught from a young age that God will provide, but what very few do teach is that he can’t do it alone. You have to put forth the effort, too. The Lord gave us free will for a reason.”

Sansa’s head bent low as she thought on his words.

“May I tell you a story?” he asked.

“Is this one of those parables about kings and choices and doing the right thing?” Sansa asked. “I’m pretty sure I’ve heard them all.”

“No. Somehow I don’t think the good book will be much help to us today,” he said clapping his hands over his abdomen.

Sansa reared her head at that. She’d never had a priest tell her that all the answers couldn’t be found in the word of God. It was refreshing.

“What?” he asked with a smile. “The Bible is a good trail guide, but, like most guides, it’s not a replacement for real life experience.”

Sansa struggled to hide her grin, suddenly feeling more at ease, more open to what he had to say. “Well, you’ve got my attention, Father.”

“Good. Where to begin?” he sighed. “There was a young man, many years ago. He joined the army with dreams of becoming the brave, honorable hero. He worked and trained to be the best that he could be; to be the soldier that could be relied upon. Then, war happened. In the brume of conflict and death, being a hero lost it’s luster. He saw friends and comrades die. He was ordered to do things, unspeakable things, by leaders who would never see the aftermath. His conscience was heavy, and while he did come out the other side alive, he was hardly whole. Like you, he questioned his lot in life as those dreams he loved when he was but a wee lad turned to nightmares. He needed to make a choice. He could continue as he was, obeying the orders of those above him, darkening his soul further until he collapsed beneath the weight of it. Or he could choose a new path, a new calling.”

“And what happened to him?” Sansa queried.

“You’re looking at him.”

Her eyebrow rose in incredulity. “You?”

“Me,” he affirmed with a nod. “As soon as I returned home, I went to the nearest parish I could find, and prayed; for myself, for my fallen friends, for the people that I was forced to kill. I was tired of fire and blood, and it occurred to me that there was a better way to help my fellow man. As soon as I was free of my service, I entered seminary school. Some might say I chose the easy path, but it wasn’t. To go from a man of war to a man of God?” he released a disbelieving scoff. “I was trained to kill. Trained to fight; to be the aggressor.” He clenched his fist purposefully to accentuate his point, then loosened it and let it fall back into his lap. “The hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my life was learning how to listen, to find compassion, and helping others find the same peace that I, myself, sought. Instead of taking lives, I was saving them. Trying to ease their burdens and guide them towards righteousness.” He shifted in his seat to meet her eyes. “What I suppose I’m saying is that sometimes the demarcations in our journey are not as clear cut as they seem. Sometimes, what seems the harder path is the easier path, and vice versa. Ultimately, you need to decide the type of person you want to be, the type of life you want to have, and only then can you know which way to turn.”

Sansa’s gaze fell back to her lap. “And if I don’t know those things?” she asked sadly.

“Well, time has a habit of making us choose. I’ve found it’s better to head it off at the pass.” Father Selmy hesitated a moment, before chancing to take her hand. “I have no doubt that you will make the right choice for yourself when the time comes.” He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

At least someone thought Sansa knew what she was doing. She wasn’t quite so certain herself. However, his words did distract her from her own inner turmoil, and in an odd way, provide some level of comfort. And when she left the church, Sansa found her heart seemed just a bit lighter than it had upon entering.

* * *

Sansa dug his number out of her coat pocket later that day, where it had sat undisturbed since their unlikely encounter. She hung it on her fridge. The ivory cardstock glared at her from its perch. The neat, precise script of the numbers taunting her each time she passed through the kitchen, daring her to dial them. She knew the longer she put it off, the harder it was going to be to reach out.

Even so, she waited. 

She desperately wanted to call her mother. Not so much in happiness, but for the comfort she may bring to Sansa’s darkening conscience. Her mother would never be in this position, of that she was certain, and the fact that Sansa was ate away at her. She had wanted so much to be like her mother. Kind, gracious, wise, but here she was unmarried, knocked up, and completely unsure how the father might react because she couldn't even get the courage up to call. 

Sansa was watching some ridiculous fashion show, determined to occupy her mind on anything else, when she threw in the towel. The thought of having this child with a man she didn't know ticked at the back of her mind. 

What sort of man was he? Her brief experience with him showed that he had the ability to be kind and warm and funny. Would he want the child? Would he want to be a part of its life? What if he already has children? What if he's married? It was an awfully big house for a bachelor. Sansa didn't recall seeing any signs of a wife or family, but that doesn't mean anything. Would he have given her his number if that were the case? Was he the kind of man that would step out on his marriage? 

There were too many variables and not enough answers. Unfortunately, the only way to get those answers was to stop procrastinating and call him. 

Sansa abandoned her seat on the sofa, and made her way to the kitchen to heat some water. What are her options? 

Don't tell him, and raise the kid on her own. She recalled her cousin, Jon, and immediately dismissed that option. He was one giant, broody ball of neuroses. 

Put the child up for adoption? She couldn't do it. Not only did it present the same possible outcome as the former option, but she would somehow have to hide the fact she was pregnant from her family. She'd have more luck emptying the ocean. 

Don't have the kid. Delve into savings, go to the UK for a week, then come back with no one the wiser. It was the smart option. Margaery offered to help. It was certainly tempting, but she wasn't that person. The person who could push it under the rug and never feel guilt or sorrow or regret. She’d hate herself. 

The high pitched whine of the kettle brought Sansa out of her head and into the present. She threw a couple slices of ginger that she’d cut earlier into her mug with a bit of honey, and poured the steaming water over it to steep. Ginger and mint tea were the only things that kept the nausea at bay, and she learned quickly that aromatic meats upset her stomach more than anything else. If this pregnancy taught her anything, it was how to adapt quickly.

With her cup of tea in hand, Sansa perched on the counter opposite the fridge, blowing the wispy tendrils of steam away. His card was in front of her, staring accusatorily at her from across the distance. Picking, picking at her conscience like a little tickbird that couldn't be swatted away.

What would she say if she called him? Somehow, the truth didn't feel particularly appealing. 

‘Hi. Remember me? We fucked like bunnies and then I skipped out on you without so much as a by your leave. Well I'm pregnant and it's yours.’

Sansa rubbed at her eyes, trying to quell her growing frustration. No, it wouldn’t do. Sansa played with different scenarios in her head, different lies to tell, different half truths, until she finally settled on the most innocuous. 

So there she sat, cross legged on her counter, opened robe slack around her shoulders with an untouched beverage in one hand and phone in the other at nine-thirty on a Sunday night. 

Quick digits flew across the phone display, dialing the number that had been branded into her consciousness, and she hit the little green button to connect without thinking. The time didn't even occur to her until she heard his voice reach through the line. 

“Baelish.”

Sansa froze. Every thought, excuse, lie she’d come up with abandoned her at the sound of his voice on the line. 

“Hello?” the impatient voice called. 

Sansa swallowed hard. “Hi. Is this Petyr Baelish?” 

_He just said his name was Baelish, Sansa, what is wrong with you?_

“Yes. May I ask who this is and how exactly you came by my private number?”

“Um. Well, actually you gave it to me,” Sansa hurriedly riffed out. “This is Alayne. We met on St. Paddy's.” Her face twisted up as the words oozed out of her mouth, and she wondered if he could hear just how awkward she felt. 

She heard a sharp intake of air. “Alayne.”

Sansa could hear the static of a crowd over the line, and glasses clinking. She raised her voice a bit to account for the noise, “Yeah. Is this a bad time?”

“You could say that,” he said. “I'm a little distracted here. Would it be possible for me to call you back in a few minutes?”

“Yeah, that's fine. I'm assuming you have my number on your end now.”

“I do. I’m dealing with some business at the moment. It shouldn't take long though. A half hour tops.”

“Yeah. That's fine. It's not like I had plans to sleep tonight.” Sansa slapped her forehead in embarrassed anguish. 

_Oh god, did I really just say that? He's going to think I'm trying to arrange a booty call._

If Petyr noticed her off color remark, he was polite enough to say nothing about it. “Yes, well, I'll speak with you soon.” There was a click over the line, and the hum and buzz from the other end was gone. 

“Bye,” Sansa responded to the dead air, and let the arm holding the phone drop dramatically to her lap, her head soon following. 

_Oh god, what am I doing. He thinks I'm an idiot. I'll never hear from him again. He's going to block my number, and then what?_

Pulling herself together, Sansa finished her now lukewarm tea in one fluid swig. There was no point in standing around the kitchen, and the idea of television was unappealing. After a little deliberation, she fell into her bed, cradling her phone for dear life. She was just starting to give up, and resign herself to a life of single motherhood when she heard the telltale ring of _‘I’m So Fancy’_. She stared in disbelief before picking it up. 

“Hello?” She hated how uncertain her voice sounded. 

“Alayne. It's Petyr. Sorry, it took so long.”

“No, it's fine. I'm sorry for interrupting you. I hope it wasn't anything too important,” she said. 

“Nothing so grand,” Petyr half laughed. “I have to be honest, after the way you left I was sure I wouldn't hear from you. Perhaps you should tell me why you're calling.”

“I…” Sansa paused. She couldn't tell him. Not over the phone. It was too impersonal. “I wanted to see if you’d like to meet me for coffee.”

“A coffee date?” Petyr questioned. 

“I’m not sure I’d classify as a date,” Sansa protested. “Just… coffee,” she sputtered.

“It's been almost two months. Why now?” He sounded unconvinced of her simple request, and Sansa couldn't really blame him. 

Why would she call after a one night stand that happened two months ago? _Because I'm pregnant._

Of course, Sansa couldn't say that. “I can't stop thinking about that night.” True. “And I want to see what you’re like under different circumstances.” Also true. “I'm just not used to making the first move, and it took me awhile to work up the courage to call.” Not entirely a lie. 

“Hmm…” Petyr hummed. “My schedule is really tight this time of year.” Sansa's heart deflated. “But, I think I could work something out. Tuesday afternoon? Say four-ish at Jitter’s Coffee?”

“That's perfect.” Sansa sighed with relief. “I'll see you then.”

“Until then. Good night, Miss Stone.” It was said with a touch of a growl that Sansa didn't miss. The last time the man called her that, he'd just had his face buried between her legs. She felt a blush creep into her cheeks.

“Goodnight, Mr. Baelish,” she demurred.

* * *

Jitter’s Coffee House was a little, no name, hole in the wall. Most people would overlook it, preferring more commercial establishments. Only true locals would be able to spot it, barely visible from its nook in the alleyway.

Sansa was staring at it now from across the street, bouncing anxiously on her heels. The little red door was open to let in the spring air, and the waft of roasting coffee beans made her mouth water. God, did she miss caffeine the last few days.

The strap of her purse was readjusted on her shoulder as she tried to tamp down her growing apprehension. Petyr seemed affable to meeting her on the phone, but her traitorous nerves that she’d spent the better part of the last day and a half trying to tame, threatened to spark back to life. It didn’t make it any easier to approach him, though, knowing that his knowledge of her was founded on not one, but two lies: her identity and her real purpose for calling him.

The afternoon traffic was starting to pick up, the sun was inching lower in the sky, and Sansa knew the time until the meeting (Date? Confrontation? She couldn't seem to settle on an apt description.) was dwindling. The last thing she needed was to be late. This was her idea after all, and, given the subject that was about to be broached, she felt it was probably best not to irk him beforehand. As soon as there was a lull on the busy street, she crossed, feet barely skimming the warm asphalt, as she made her way over. She didn't allow herself to stop and think before entering the building, but paused hesitantly inside the door, looking for a familiar face.

The shop was fairly empty, but Sansa saw a hand wave in her periphery, and spied Petyr. He was in a suit and tie, and she couldn't help but think how handsome he looked. He rose to stand as she nervously walked in his direction. She gave him a tight smile. 

“Alayne,” he greeted. They did a little dance around each other before he finally settled on leaning in to kiss her cheek. Her heart felt too big in her chest at the simple touch. He’d kissed her everywhere else, but this act felt too intimate somehow in the sober light of day. 

“Please.” Petyr gestured to the seat opposite where he’d been sitting. “I hope you're okay with the booth. I thought it might give us a bit more privacy.”

“No, it's perfect,” Sansa said brushing her hair over her shoulder. She ducked into the seat, and set her bag down. “Thank you for meeting me.”

“Think nothing of it,” he said. 

They sat in awkward silence, Petyr fidgeting with a silver ring on his hand (not a wedding ring, she noted), and Sansa studying the worn menu in front of her, until the waitress came over to take their drink orders. Sansa ordered a mint tea with cream and honey, citing that it was a bit late in the day for caffeine. If he questioned it, he didn’t say anything, ordering a chai latte for himself.

Quiet befell them again. Neither seemed to know exactly what to say or how to break the ice. Petyr happened to look down in the seat next to him. “Ah! I almost forgot.” He produced a simple brown gift bag. “I brought this for you.”

“Oh!” Sansa accepted the bag. “I wasn’t expecting you to get me anything,” she said with a furrowed brow. 

“I didn’t. Just,” and he motioned with his head to check the contents.

Peeking inside, Sansa noticed a bit of lavender lace, and her cheeks burned. “Oh.” She set the bag discreetly aside. “Thanks. I didn’t expect to see it again.” She bent her head to hide her discomfited grin, “You know, I don’t even remember taking it off.”

“You didn’t. I did. After you passed out that is,” he said sheepishly. “I thought you’d be more comfortable, and after we’d already… I didn’t think you’d mind.”

She shook her head. “No. No, it’s fine.” 

Their server came back around with their drinks, and flitted off again when neither wanted anything more solid. 

“I feel like I should apologize,” he said hurriedly once they were alone again. Leaning over his latte, “I didn’t mean for anything to happen that night. Your considerable charms were hard to ignore, and I'm afraid I allowed my,” he cleared his throat, “lesser head to take the lead. You rather bewitched me. If I’d fully realized how inebriated you were…”

“I wasn’t drunk,” Sansa interjected. “I mean, I was, but not to the point I didn’t know what I was doing.” A touch of pink tinged her cheek as she remembered her brash actions that night. 

“Oh? I worried with the way you left that maybe I misjudged the situation. I don’t have a habit of bedding drunk women I’ve just met.” One side of his mouth threatened to curl at the disclosure.

“And I don’t usually go home with strange men,” she said. “Seems we both experienced some firsts that night.” Sansa caught her lip between teeth, gently biting it as she met his gaze with her own. 

“I suppose so.” Petyr’s somber mood seemed to lift, and he grinned. “So tell me, Alayne. What do you do?”

“Nothing too interesting,” she confessed. “I teach music at the local academy. Sometimes give private lessons.”

“Music? Singing or instrumental?” Petyr continued.

“Both actually.” Sansa sipped at her tea. 

“Both?” Petyr sounded impressed. “What instruments do you play?”

“Piano, which is sort of a necessity. Also guitar and the harp. And the bells, but I haven’t really touched those since I was a girl,” Sansa explained.

Petyr ran his thumb over the rim of his mug, lost in thought. “That takes a lot of skill. I recall hearing that proficiency in music leads to a higher aptitude in maths.”

“If it does, then I missed the memo,” Sansa said laughing. “Just ask my finance professors. I was hopeless. It was the main reason I decided to drop from the business program.”

“You went to business school, then?”

“For a time, yeah. It wasn’t for me though. I had thought to work with my father’s company at one point, but a few bad experiences soured me to the prospect. Music was a much better fit.”

“You’re father has his own business? What’s his name? I work with just about everyone. I might know him.”

“Well…” Sansa stared into her teacup as though it might spout forth an answer. 

“On second thought, that… could be awkward.”

“It could,” Sansa agreed, “There is something, though. Something about me you should know. I haven't been completely honest with you.” Her face scrunched up with guilt as she watched his expression. 

Petyr let curiosity show on his features, but said nothing. He tilted his head, and she took his silence as permission to continue.

“My name isn’t actually Alayne Stone.”

“Ah!” His head dipped and he nodded. “That explains it.”

It was now Sansa’s turn to send him a questioning glance. He drank a bit of his latte before continuing. 

“After you disappeared, I searched for you,” Petyr admitted. Catching her blue eyes, “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Sansa let out a surprised, “Oh,” and her eyes fell to the creamy tan liquid that filled her cup. 

“So why the pseudonym?” he asked. 

“I, um… I had an issue with a stalker a few years back. I met him in a pub.”

“I see. A fake name gives a degree of anonymity and safety.”

“It does. He's behind bars now,” Sansa reassured him as well as herself. “But there are some lessons you hold on to. Outside of work or my friends, I don't give anyone my real name.”

He reached out to finger a dangling curl. “Is that the reason you dye your hair as well?”

Sansa bent her head, unable to look him in the eyes. “You noticed.”

“It was hard not to notice, sweetling,” Petyr said with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “That red has popped up in more than one dream since.”

Sansa covered her face with a groan, completely abashed, and he laughed. Petyr reached over and pulled her hands away, “I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist. You’re too adorable when you blush.” He rubbed over the soft skin of her knuckles. “Forgive me?” he asked with a teasing smirk.

“Only if you promise to behave,” she jokingly admonished.

“How boring.” Petyr sighed, and kissed the back of each of her hands. “If you insist, I will curtail my lowdown, lecherous ways. For you.” His grey-green eyes were glowing with amusement. “So do I get to know your real name?”

“I suppose it’s only fair,” she lamented mockingly. “ It's Sansa--Sansa Stark.”

The smile on his face dropped a fraction, and the playful glint in his eyes dimmed. “Stark.” He bent his head and the smile died. “Yes. I know the Starks.” He gave her hands one last squeeze and released them to lean back into his seat.

Sansa watched as all the mirth and bravado of before fled him. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” he began, then seemed to recalculate his response. “Is your mother Catelyn Stark?”

“Yes, actually. Do you know her?”

“Fuck. I’m an idiot.” His hands swiped through his hair and over his face. “I went to college with your mom.”

“Well, that’s not so bad, I mean-”

“And I was engaged to her, sweetling. Prior to you dear old da, of course.” Petyr said despondently.

“What?! That’s… Noooo.” Sansa covered her mouth, eyes wide. _Oh, this was not good. This was bad. This was very, very bad._

“Oh, yes.” He affirmed. “This, as much as I enjoy your company, this would lead nowhere good. If your father didn’t kill me, I’m pretty sure your mother would.” He said. “I should go.”

Petyr scooched towards the edge of the booth, but before he could leave, Sansa grabbed his wrist. “You can’t,” she implored. She couldn't let him go. Not yet. 

“I have to. I don’t think-”

“You don’t understand. Petyr, I’m pregnant,” she blurted out. 

The wind was knocked out of Petyr, and he fell back into his seat. His gaze flicked about. “You’re pregnant?” He didn't look at her. The question made more to the room than to Sansa. 

She released her grip on him and nodded. “I only found out this weekend.”

“And you think it’s mine?” he said sharply. Grey-green snapped to and studied her face speculatively. 

The balance of their conversation shifted, and left Sansa feeling off kilter and defensive. It suddenly felt more like an interrogation than a conversation. “I know it is. I… That is to say… There hasn’t been anyone else.”

“And I’m just supposed to take your word for that?" he shot back. His voice was cutting, and Sansa felt like her chest would explode. 

Petyr's caustic tone caught her off guard, and her face flushed with disappointment. This was exactly the response she was trying to avoid. Sansa had never been good with confrontation, and she quickly tried to ease the tension, even as tears threatened to overtake her. Shaking her head, “No. Of course not. I’m more than-”

“This isn’t the first time someone has come to me claiming to carry my child." His eyes, that had previously been warm and jovial, were cold. "What is it that you want from me?" 

Petyr's whole demeanor shifted on a dime. He wasn't her gentleman from that night. He wasn't even the flirt from only moments before. He twisted into something else; something predatory. His gaze was assessing.

_He thinks I'm lying._

Her eyes stung, and she fought to keep her voice from wavering. “You know what. You’re right. This is a bad idea.” Sansa threw her napkin down, and gathered her things to leave.

Petyr rubbed back his neck and watched her walk away. His eyes shut, and he took a few deep breaths. “Damn it.” He tossed enough money down to cover their check and chased after her.

Petyr made it to the street, and spun round until he spotted Sansa marching briskly halfway down the block. He pursued her at a run. His dress shoes tap, tap, tapping as he went.

“Alay- fuck," Petyr muttered, running a hand over his brow before trying again. "Sansa! Sansa wait!” He yelled. He begged. “I’m sorry. Please stop.” He was out of breath from trying to catch up to her.

Sansa paused on the sidewalk, and rounded on him. “What?” Tears were streaming down her face, and the skin around her nose and eyes was red and splotchy from her anger. She tried to wipe it all away, but the moisture kept falling.

“I’m sorry. I… You blindsided me. I don’t exactly have a good track record with women.” 

“Gee! I can't imagine why, Petyr,” Sansa said with a sarcastic sob.

He ran his hand over his mouth and down his chin. “Have you told anyone?”

She crossed her arms and shook her head. “No. I mean, my friend Marge guessed before I did, but no one knows outside of her.”

“Do you... _are_ you going to keep it?”

“I was. I wanted to tell you first. See if you wanted to be a part of its life. Now I don’t know. You probably have your own kids out there somewhere,” she waved to the open air towards his imaginary children.

“No. No kids,” he said, and advanced slowly to stand in front of her.

“And now I’ve gone and ruined your childless streak. How clumsy of me.” Sansa said bitterly before breaking down into a fit of sobs.

Petyr enveloped her in his arms, and desperate for comfort, Sansa buried her face in his chest. “Hush, now. It’s okay." He smoothed his hands over her back, trying to soothe her. "You didn’t exactly get into this situation by yourself.” Looking around, he saw that they were beginning to draw attention of passers by. He pulled back, and lifted her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Come on. Let’s get off the street.” He snaked his arm around her and she tucked into his side automatically, her head resting on his shoulder as she tried to abate her tears. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo... This chapter got away from me.


	3. Chapter 3

The room was cozy if dated. As a matter of fact, Petyr was almost certain he recognized the furniture from his time courting Catelyn. Sansa must have taken it from the old Tully estate when Hoster kicked the bucket a few years back. Two threadbare armchairs sat around one round glass coffee table opposite an equally ancient sofa — very kitschy, very eighties. He was surprised someone as seemingly fashionable as Sansa had not replaced every stick of it with that cheap, Swedish crap all the younger people seemed to flock to these days. Either she was broke, or she was practical. No television, he noted; just a laptop sitting closed at the side of the couch. Practical it was. A few built in bookshelves lined the room (likely intended for some grandmother’s stash of curios), but packed bottom to top with books, silly knick knacks, and photographs. The latter caught Petyr’s attention as he waited.

After Sansa’s meltdown in the street, he’d managed to usher her the few blocks home, and now here he was in her domain. She’d excused herself to the bathroom the second the door opened, embarrassed over her outburst, so Petyr — with little to occupy him — nosed around her apartment, looking for any sign, any warning, that she could be as batty as her aunt.

A framed family photo was plucked from where it rested, a bit of dust stirring from the movement. Sansa stared back at him, her red hair far more vibrant than her mother’s had been. She was riding the back of a young man who looked far too much like Edmure (perhaps a brother?) and a few scrawny looking kids trying to climb the taller boy’s frame as they laughed. They looked happy. 

Petyr’s own mouth curled a bit in warm response. He didn’t notice Sansa sneak up behind his shoulder. “My brothers and sister,” she said, startling him from behind.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry,” he said, replacing the picture, abashed at being caught snooping.

A tinkling laugh escaped her. “It’s okay. I wouldn’t have it out if I didn’t want anyone to see them.” She picked it back up, pointed proudly as she turned it to face him. “This is my older brother, Robb. Arya, the giant pain in my arse who I call sister.” Petyr grinned at that. “And my little brothers — Bran and Rickon.”

“That’s quite a brood.”

“It is,” she agreed. “What about you? Any siblings?”

Petyr sniffed, swiped at his nose, and looked away. “No. Only child. My mam died a few years after I was born. Dad never remarried.”

The easy smile on her face fell. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. I don’t remember her really.” He shrugged, dipping his hands in his pockets, attempting to play at being at ease — a state in which he absolutely was not.

A stifling silence settled between them. Sansa looked about as lost as he felt. Remembering her manners, “Do you want to sit down? I was going to make some mint tea — it helps to settle my stomach. Would you like some?”

“Yeah,” Petyr nodded, flashed a subdued grin. “Mint’s a favorite of mine actually.”

“You’re in luck, then.” She bounced into the kitchen wearing a tiny smile; a little less nervous, a little less shy because she was able to please him — if only a little. “I just bought it fresh this morning.”

Petyr removed his jacket before sitting down on the sofa where he could watch her work. The springs creaked — nails on a chalkboard loud — and it traversed his spine, raising the hair on his neck. Sansa was fumbling with the kettle, and pulling out a tea tray, either oblivious to the racket or used to it. He couldn’t help laugh quietly to himself as she continued to retrieve cups and saucers and other tea time accoutrements. She was definitely Cat’s daughter — all decorum and etiquette.

Since she was making an effort at sociability, Petyr figured he’d do best to try as well. “So how long have you lived in Dublin?”

Sansa glanced up from refreshing the sugar container. “Who says I’m not from here?”

“You talk too fast and too prettily to be from here. And I know a Cork accent when I hear one, though you do well at covering it.” 

“That obvious, huh?” A mischievous smile lit up the blue in her eyes. “ I've been here the last two years. Are you familiar with Cork, then?”

“Not really,” he sighed. “But I went to school down there for a time. That’s how I met Cat.” Immediately, Petyr regretted intoning the name of her mother, but a genuine spark of curiosity illuminated her face, and rationally, he knew it was a subject that would have to be discussed. 

She turned to grab some cream from the fridge, spine more rigid when she turned back to face him. Determined. “How long were you two engaged?” There was a woeful catch in her voice he was certain she didn’t mean for him to notice.

He cleared his throat. “Five months.”

Their eyes connected, and it was a struggle to hold her gaze; the urgency in it compelling him for honesty. “Can I ask why it didn’t work out?”

The kettle whined, and Sansa spun to remove it from the burner, giving him a momentary reprieve from the subject. Petyr clasped his hands between his knees, using the action to steady himself, as Sansa prepped the tea. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her everything — about the arrest, the fight, the drunken night he barely remembers — but that route was a minefield he’d prefer to avoid for the time being. It would have to come out eventually if this child did, indeed, prove to be his. A fact of which he was almost certain, because his dick was a fucking divining rod seeking out and impregnating Tully women, apparently. 

_Shit_. 

This was not how Petyr had envisioned his day going. He was going to have a nice coffee date with Alayne Stone. Yet, now he found himself awkwardly dancing around the subject of his impending parenthood with none other than his ex-fiancee’s _daughter_. The thought that she could have been his raced turbulently through his head. 

_Jesus!_

The odds of this turning out as anything but a catastrophic clusterfuck were low — a hundred to one at best. 

_If only I’d just woken her up._

The tea tray clattered against the glass top table, breaking the peace. Sansa tilted her head at him as she claimed the seat across from him, clearly expecting a response to her previous question.

“The answer to that is… complicated.” 

“Does it look like I’m going anywhere in a hurry?” 

“No, but it’s not a time in my life I want to revisit with someone I barely know.” It came out more clipped than he’d intended.

“Of course. How silly of me. I’m only carrying the child of a man I don’t know, who used to see my _mother_. Jesus Christ, is this really my life?” The latter was said more to herself, but the exasperation was writ plain.

Watching the emotion play over her, Petyr suddenly felt like an ass. She was just as disoriented by this happening as he. He reached out for her hand. She let him, and he took that as a good sign even if she was refusing to look at him. His thumb brushed across her knuckles. “I’m sorry. I just…” Words eluded him. “There are things that happened back then… Things that don’t show myself or your mother in a good light. Until we figure out how to handle this,” he motioned to where she would soon swell, “I would prefer to leave it in the past. For now at any rate.”

Blue eyes finally deigned to meet his, scrutinizing. “For now,” she agreed.

That agreement would have to be enough for the time being. Perhaps, if Sansa came to know him, she’d be less trusting of her mother’s accusations when they came out. And they would come out, he had no doubt. Cat liked nothing more than to throw blame around when the opportunity presented itself — anything to ensure that she and the Tully family were the paragons of virtue they pretended to be. Oh, Cat was going to hate him even more once she learns of this. He could already feel it emanating in the horizon. 

They each sat back, sipping their tea — trying to watch each other over the rim of their cups without looking like they were trying to watch each other over the rim of their cups.

“Have you seen a doctor yet?”

Her head shook in the negative. “No.”

“So it’s not confirmed. The test could be false.”

“One test could be false,” she acceded. “Five — not so much.”

“Five?” His eyes widened at her admission.

“Five,” she reaffirmed. “I didn’t want to involve you unless I was certain. I took three over the weekend, and another two this morning just to make sure I wasn’t imagining the whole thing.”

“And you’re certain that this is what you want?”

“Can I be honest?”

Petyr leaned forward, the cup grasped lightly between his knees. “I think that’s for the best.”

“I do. I- I wasn’t sure at first, I admit, but I do.” She sat her teacup down. Her eyes were so very soft, open. “But I also recognize that this makes things difficult for you. So, if this isn’t something you want to be a part of I will understand. I won’t think less of you for it.”

Something inside Petyr bristled at her words. He placed his cup on the table and met her eyes. “Do you want me to back away from this?”

“No. No.” Her head shook. “That’s-” Sansa abandoned her seat on the armchair to sit next to him on the sofa. “I didn’t mean it like that.” She held herself, rubbing her arms. “I just don’t want you to feel obligated to stick around. I mean, you said you don’t have any kids…” She trailed off.

“So you assumed I didn’t want any?” he finished for her.

The floor beneath her feet was suddenly very interesting.

Now it was his turn to explain. His hand twitched with indecision before finally relenting in his desire to touch her, cupping her chin, bringing her eyes up to meet his. “It’s not for lack of wanting, Sansa. I did want them at one point in my life very much.”

She pulled at his wrist to hold his hand in her lap. Her eyes followed. Her voice small. “But you don’t anymore?”

“Is that what I said?” He sighed. “After a time, I just gave up on the idea. I’m forty-two years old. I’ve never found someone that I wanted to settle down with, so I just assumed it would never happen.”

Sansa worried at her lip, her fingers trailing over the veins on the back of his hand. “You said that- Back in the cafe, you said that I wasn’t the first to come to you about something like this.”

Petyr cursed his own stupid mouth — his hand flexing under her touch — and hoped he could get away with saying as little as possible on the subject. “No, you aren’t. Both of those instances, however, turned out to be nothing.” Bravery returning, she examined him, her face a mask of confusion. He decided it best to expand the statement. Explain. “The first time, I was younger than you. It ended in miscarriage. The second,” of which he still kicked himself over, “turned out not to be my kid at all. It was for the best in both cases.”

“And now?”

Petyr said a silent prayer of thanks that she did not inquire further regarding the other women — woman — in those cases. “Well…” How to phrase this. “I’m not averse to the idea of having a child, but I — and please do not take what I’m about to say personally — I need assurances that it is, in fact, mine.”

“Because of what happened previously?”

He breathed a sigh of relief that she didn’t seem to take offense. “Yes. That particular instance was… chaotic, to say the least. I think a paternity test would be the best course of action.”

“That’s fair,” she acquiesced. “I mean, I figured, given that we don’t know each other that you’d want to do something like that. I can’t blame you for not taking my word.” Both hands squeezed around the one she held. “When I make my doctor’s appointment, I’ll ask if that’s something they can help us with.”

Memories of large needles, green waiting rooms, the antiseptic smell of the hospital came unbidden. He felt sick. “Isn’t it too soon? I thought we’d have to wait until you were further along.”

“No. It’s just a quick blood draw these days.”

“That’s good. That’s good,” he reiterated. “It’s best that we get that done quickly,” he said, voice belying the panic he truly felt. God, he really needed a drink — and not _tea_.

* * *

The fluorescent bulb flickered over head; his shirt sleeves rolled up as he waited patiently for them to come and draw his blood. Sansa was taken to a separate room for her own.

_To prevent mix-ups_ , they’d said.

Petyr drove them both to the clinic, supposedly the best OB/GYN in town. He’d insisted, though after being called the father — _her_ father to be exact — by the towering nurse that retrieved them from the waiting room, he wasn’t exactly impressed with the staff’s tact. He’d always thought of himself as rather striking for his years. Even with the fine lines around his eyes deepening, and the silver wings that seemed to be slowly but surely reaching beyond his temples, he was in good shape; fit and trim, well dressed and manicured, full head of hair, and his teeth pristine and white and straight. He’d brushed off their assumption with a laugh that he hoped came off gracious, but his vanity was decidedly bruised.

The pregnancy was confirmed by Dr. Ebrose in the initial appointment before the man had even taken a seat in the exam room. The good doctor ran through with them what to expect in the coming months, ordered blood draws to determine the health of the fetus and the mother, passed Sansa a prescription for prenatal vitamins as well as a nutritional guide of what she should and should not be consuming. And when the discussion of paternity began, there was no judgement in the doctor’s face or voice. He was the ideal professional, focusing on the facts of the case and the concerns of his patients, but not at all interested in the somewhat amoral situation that led to their predicament. That alone helped to tone down Petyr’s irritation over the egregious effrontery of the earlier nurse.

The plan was to take Sansa’s sample first, so that she could get in queue for an ultrasound quicker. She asked him if he wanted to come. Petyr waffled on the answer, only commenting that he’d try. He was 99.999% certain that this was his kid, but it was that last little bit of doubt that made him not want to go. Remembering the way Lysa had sworn up and down that the child she carried was his after he’d stupidly (so _stupidly_ ) slept with her to get inside information about her husband’s company kept him cautious, detached. He’d worn a condom then, too, but it was from Lysa’s hands, and who knew what the demented broad had done to it before handing it over. But she was insistent, and he had no desire to sleep with her with no barrier between them — potentially faulty protection better than none at all.

This time it was his condom that failed. Petyr saw the aftermath; the torn latex, the dribble of cum as he pulled out. It was on the tip of his tongue to wake her up in that moment, but looking at her, so damn peaceful and sated in sleep, he made the rash decision to wait until morning. To take her out for a quick run by the nearest chemist and then to breakfast for amends, and maybe more. He wasn’t sure where his head was if he were being honest with himself. Any other woman, and none of this would have come to pass. There was just something about _her_ that made him alter his exceedingly rational and formulaic plans. He certainly hadn’t anticipated for the angel in his bed to sneak off and disappear; nor, that she would give him a fake name to go with her fake hair.

Unfortunately, it was the nurse from earlier that entered to take his blood — Brienne, said her name tag. She was undeservedly aggressive with him. Even her greeting.

“Good. You’re ready. Let’s get this over with shall we, Mr. Baelish?” Would it kill her to use a modicum of bedside manner?

She manhandled his arm like an axe hilt. There was no gentleness, no setting him at ease. The rubber band tied roughly above his elbow tight enough to cause discomfort before she slapped at his veins. 

He squirmed under her ministrations. “Hold still.” Her voice terse.

Petyr wrenched his arm free. “I’m sorry, but have I offended you in some way? You have this damn thing so tight my arm may well fall off.”

Brienne’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

He blinked. “Should I?”

“Brienne Tarth.”

“I’m sorry. I’m drawing a blank,” he explained.

“God. You’re just as arrogant as I remember.” 

Petyr was completely lost. The woman was a giant — blonde, cropped hair framing a plain face on a body more suited to manual labor than that of nursing. He tried to recall ever encountering a woman so tall. Not since…

“Oh shit.”

“Oh shit is right,” she growled. “Good to know I’m not so forgettable as you’d have me believe.”

Grasping, impatient hands tugged his arm back as the floodgates opened. Brienne-fucking-Tarth, one of Catelyn’s best friends. Years had erased her from memory, and now, here he was with Cat’s daughter, pregnant, and he, the assumed father.

“You can stop gaping now.” Petulance tinged her words. “I couldn’t tell Cat even if I wanted to. Fucking privacy laws,” she muttered.

She re-tied the band, a bit looser, clearly trying to gain a hold on her own temper. She jabbed without warning. He hissed. She hit her mark, and he watched his blood slowly filling the tube. 

“It’s not what you think.” He felt compelled to explain, he couldn’t pinpoint why. “I didn’t know Sansa was Cat’s daughter.”

“Oh?” She rolled her eyes. The sarcasm dripped from her lips in waves. “What a relief! So you’re just knocking up random twenty year olds for fun. Boy, does that ease my conscience.” 

“Look, I get where you’re coming from. Cat is your friend, and I’m sure she told you everything when things ended, but there are two sides to every story.”

The tube was yanked free with a grunt, and Petyr flinched as the pain radiated up his arm, gritted his teeth.

“Two sides? You knocked up _her sister_!” Brienne snarled. “And now you’ve done it again with _her daughter_. I have half a mind to castrate you where you sit, you right petty arsehole!”

Brienne stormed out with paperwork and blood sample in hand, leaving him to remove the band and himself from the room.

_Fuck_.

* * *

The ultrasound commenced without him. It wasn’t by choice. Without Brienne to escort him, Petyr wasn’t sure where to go, and by the time he’d run the gauntlet back to the main desk, Sansa was already waiting to leave. She didn’t let her disappointment show, and accepted his excuses.

_The nurses must have been backed up. It took a while for them to get to me._

If it felt like poison in her ears, it tasted no less deplorable on his on tongue. He cursed that monstrous woman for stripping him of that moment.

The ultrasound picture was clutched in Sansa’s hand. She hadn’t shown it to him directly. Perhaps, he hadn’t hidden his hesitation from before as well as he thought. She glanced at it in his periphery a few times — a black and white little blob of static. Petyr tried to conjure up what it must have felt like to see it live — to see and hear the heartbeat — but all he dredged up were the tactile memories of a previous mistake; reluctance, dread, nights filled with liquor and remorse. Self-loathing wasn’t a good look on him. He didn’t want those same associations with Sansa, and after his unexpected interlude with Brienne, he was afraid that’s exactly what would happen. For all that the woman said she had no intentions to interfere, Petyr had not a doubt she’d be on the phone to Cat before the week was out. She may not straight up say that Sansa was pregnant, but the mere mention of seeing her at her job would be enough to get Catelyn’s attention. Which meant his window of opportunity to win the girl over was even more limited than he’d assumed.

“Why do doctor’s appointments have to be so exhausting?” Sansa complained as she slunk against the passenger side window. “All that poking and prodding. I mean, how much blood do they really need?” She sighed. “I really don’t want to to back into work after all that.”

“How about we grab some ice cream instead?”

Sansa shook her head, a dubious grin on her lips. “You can’t be serious?”

“What?” Petyr gave her his best smile. “The day is gorgeous. And I’m not so eager to head into the office either. I’ve been poked at enough today.”

“They’re expecting me back, though.”

“So blow it off. Tell them, it’s taking longer than planned. Put me on the phone, I’ll do my best Ebrose impression,” he joked.

“You want me to play hooky from school? Like a stupid teenager?”

“And why not?” He grinned like the Cheshire cat. “What say you, Miss Stark? Shall we be delinquents for a day?”

Her lips curled and he knew he had her. “You’re a very bad influence, Mr. Baelish.”

“Call me Petyr.”

* * *

No mobiles. It was Sansa’s suggestion, and while he was reluctant to be so wholly disconnected from his businesses, he agreed. After storing both their devices safely into the glove compartment of his car, they descended into the heart of the city on foot, side by side.

Gelato was acquired in short order, and they meandered a few blocks making pleasant talk about the weather, the upcoming festivals and art shows, eventually entering St. Stephen’s Green. The park was in full bloom. The lengthened summer days reflected in the abundance of greenery, the leafy trees, the red and purple and yellow flowers. Idyllic. They took the path closest to the water.

“So what do you do, Petyr?” Sansa asked around a mouth full of lemon gelato.

“What do you mean?”

“Like, you know,” she stirred the air in front of her, “for work.”

“A little of this, a little of that.” He swiped his spoon over his tongue. “Nothing so grand.”

“Oh no. No more of that. Don’t think I haven’t notice how you deflect questions.”

He hummed, brows arching ever so slightly. “Do I?”

“Yes. Don’t pretend you don’t know what you’re doing.” She nudged him with her shoulder. “I’d like to know who it is that I’m about to be tied to for life.”

_For life_. That particular realization hadn’t quite set in for him yet. Suddenly, there was a knot in the pit of his stomach, and the refreshing treat in his hand felt a bit less appetizing.

He cleared his throat, tossed the gelato in the nearest bin. “I have a few different businesses. Titan Exports, my shipping company, I inherited. It was my great-grandfather’s venture, and I keep it afloat, but it’s not my main source of income. I own a few pubs as well — including the one we met in.” Sansa’s lips formed a silent ‘o’. “Mainly, though, I work as a fiduciary advisor.”

“So a fancy accountant,” Sansa jokingly suggested as turned to face him, still walking — toe to heel — in front of him.

Petyr’s chest rumbled. “More or less. It keeps the bills paid, and gives me enough leeway to pursue other interesting avenues of investment.”

“Work with anyone I might know?” She probably meant celebrities, titans of industry; the truth was more mundane, unfortunately.

“Robert Baratheon?” he offered.

“Dad’s old college buddy?” she said, somewhat perplexed.

“So you’re familiar?”

“A little too familiar.” Her face scrunched up in distaste. “I went out with his son in high school. Huge mistake.”

“Joffrey? Really?”

She stopped, her face indignant. “Don’t look at me like that.” 

Petyr had the vague notion she wanted desperately to stamp her foot at him. He only grinned wider. “Like what? How am I looking at you?” he teased.

“All…” She pouted, waved her hand in the general direction of his face, “Judge-y faced,” she finally spat with a laugh.

“I promise, you are not the person my thoughts are directed at.” He stepped closer, voice low. “I’m just trying to figure out how in the world that little shit-for-brains managed to get a date with you much less trap you in a relationship. You’re far too smart for someone like him.”

“Hmm… And here I thought you were going to comment on my beauty like every other guy trying to get into my good graces.”

He raised a suggestive eyebrow. “Pretty sure I’ve already been in your good graces.”

Sansa scoffingly laughed. “Oh my god.” She slapped his chest playfully. “You did not just go there!”

“Oh, I went there.”

She held up a singular digit as defense. “One time. I slept with you one time.”

Petyr snatched her hand from the air, pulling her closer. “And you were a very _animated_ sleeper if I recall” She stumbled into him at the gambit, and his hands found her waist, steadying her. This close, he could see the indentation on her lip where her teeth had been worrying on and off throughout the day. “Why did you sneak out that morning? I’ve often wondered.” He voice sounded husky even to his own ears.

“I- I didn’t know what else to do.” She studied his tie, how it hung loosely around his neck — the top button of his shirt undone — before glancing up, meeting his intense stare. “Marge and Asha — my friends — they always talked about their one night stands. About how awkward it was to wake up the next morning and make small talk and exchange numbers knowing neither party ever intended to pursue the other. I guess I just… thought it would be easier.”

“Do you regret it?” Petyr wasn’t sure what prompted him to ask that question. Mired, as it was, in some twisted desire to know how he measured up to her previous experiences.

“Do I regret… ?”

“Going home with me that night,” he clarified.

Her pink tongue darted out, moistened tip dragging over parted lips. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. “No. I don’t regret it.”

“Good, because neither do I.” And Petyr realized with some shock that that was the truth. If he were given the chance to go back to that bar, and talk to that strange, slightly drunk and flirty girl, he’d do it all over again. He tucked a errant lock of hair behind her ears, and offered his arm. “Now tell me about these ne’er-do-well friends of yours.”

* * *

It was Friday night at the pub, and Petyr was buying. Or rather supplying since he owned the place. A perk of which Sansa’s compatriots were more than happy to take advantage when the offer was made. It had been over two weeks since his run in with Brienne, and so far there was no sign that the Starks knew anything beyond what Sansa had told them — which so far, was nothing. He’d almost expected Cat to come barreling down his door demanding an explanation the very day it was discovered, so the stay of execution was welcome.

But for now, introductions were needed. If you can’t dazzle them with personality, then do it with alcohol. Petyr was, thankfully, blessed with both.

  


**First Round: 8:12 PM**  
Three pints of beer, three shots of cheap whiskey, and a ginger beer

  


The pub was hopping when he arrived; the sound of laughter, glasses clinking, chair scraping. All the signs of a profitable evening. Sansa was already huddled up with her cohorts in the booth he reserved for them. Petyr was, unfortunately, running late, and made the split-second decision to breeze in with drinks in tow. “Good evening, ladies.” The tray clattered, the drinks sloshing over their rims. His smile boyish. “I will be your bartender-slash-entertainment for the evening.” He bent low, whispering into Sansa's ear. "Sorry, I'm late, sweetling," before ghosting a chaste kiss against her cheek. Sansa hid her face as she slid further into the booth to make room for him.

The other girls missed the sly display of affection in their eagerness to get their greedy hands on the drinks provided.

“Drinks! Finally!” said an impatient Margaery as she bounced back into her seat. “So you're the notorious Petyr Baelish. I was beginning to think our girl here made you up!"

"I'm quite real, I'm afraid — much to Sansa's chagrin, I'm sure." He added with a wink to exasperated Sansa.

"Thanks for the drinks," Wasting no time, the brunette immediately dropped her shot in the beer, and downed the Boilermaker. Her face twisted, tongue smacking against her lips at the taste. "But for future reference," she coughed, "I prefer to start the evening with something a little fruitier.”

Well that gave Petyr an interesting preview of their evening. He chuckled before giving a stiff salute. “Duly noted.”

Asha hung back in the shadows, unusually quiet, only giving a stiff nod of thanks.

  


**Second Round: 9:02 PM**  
Two pints of beer, two shots of cheap whiskey, one Sangria, and a ginger beer

  


Petyr listened absently, sipping lightly at his drink as Sansa and Margaery talked about the latest installment at the Tyrell Gallery. A performance artist was going to live day and night for a week in the front display window. Supposedly to bring awareness to the refugee crisis. He wasn't quite sure how that worked. Sounded more like someone mooching off the galleries kindness than art, but they both seemed delighted with the prospect. Turning his attention to the other woman at the table — Asha, he recalled — he couldn't help but feel as though he'd met her before. She seemed completely averse to conversation, and couldn't quite let her eyes meet Petyr’s, which seemed almost rude, except…

He swirled the liquid in his glass, eyes narrowed. “I know you from somewhere, and it is driving me daft trying to place it.” 

“What?” she feigned surprise, badly. “Nah. I think I’d remember.” But she threw back her drink as though he might steal it away, and slunk deeper into her seat all the same.

“No, I do.” Oh, that look, that voice, that bad acting. He suddenly remembered _exactly_ where he knew her from. “You’re the one that spilled that drink all over my suit and gave me a fake name before running out a few weeks back!” The suit was brand new, bespoke, and the cleaners couldn’t get the smell of cheap beer out completely.

"That was not my fault!" Eyes wide, back straight, Asha pointed Sansa's way. "She made me do it!"

Sansa gasped. "You dirty traitor!" she cried, throwing a balled up napkin at Asha's head. It whizzed past her ear as she laughed.

He arched an inquisitive brow, reclining back to take the full measure of the woman next to him. "Sansa?"

“There was a good reason, I promise” Sansa sheepishly admitted, face contrite as she sidled up, wrapping both her arms around one of his. When she related to him the circumstances, the previous indignation melted off him; his fingers squeezing hers where they were hidden beneath the table.

  


**Third Round: 9:57 PM**  
Two fingers of Glenfiddich 50 Year, one pint of beer, one shot of the cheap whiskey, one Cosmopolitan, one ginger beer

  


Returning from the bathroom, Petyr found Asha and Sansa, heads cloistered, their eyes trained at the other end of the room. Following their path, he saw Margaery in a heated discussion with with a blonde man (boy really), seated at the bar.

His brow crinkled. "Should I intervene?"

Sansa waved her hand, frantically shushing him before pulling him down into the seat beside her. 

He couldn't help laughing. "Why are you shushing me?" He gestured to the duo. "They can't hear us."

"Not the point," Sansa explained in hushed tones. "That's Marge's ex. He's trying to win her back, and we can't tell what they're saying if you don't shut up."

Petyr inched closer, their thighs touching, murmuring in her, "And what are they saying?"

She nudged his shoulder. "I can't tell if you keep distracting me."

Breath tickling at her ear, he teased, "I don't think you could have told in either case."

Sansa only rolled her eyes, pinching his side in annoyance.

Another minute passed, as Petyr observed the odd ritual before remarking, "He looks a bit like a guilty puppy."

"She won't fall for it," said Asha, shaking her head. "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice..."

"So, this is a common theme, then?"

"He's probably the closest thing to a regular relationship she's had in years," offered Sansa.

"Unfortunately, he as all the backbone of a jellyfish, and his mother is a godawful mean drunk."

"And she _hates_ Margaery. I think its the age difference."

At Petyr's look of confusion, Sansa explained, "Marge is thirty-two. Tommy only just turned twenty-one. There's not even ten years difference between she and his mother."

"Ah. Bit of a cradle robber, is she?"

Asha gave him her best side-eye. "Well aren't you the happy hypocrite?"

"Never said I wasn't." Petyr's grin was smug as he picked up his drink.

Not long after, Margaery's berry pink whatsit was poured over the unlucky lads head. With triumphant steps, she returned to the table. "Okay, then! Now that that's over..." Petyr sipped. "Which one of you sons of bitches wants a Blowjob?"

He damn nearly choked to death on his good scotch.

**Six Blowjobs later...**

A very happy drunk Margaery was hunched over the table, chin on her palm, as she fingered a lock of Sansa's hair. “When are you going to go back to your natural color, Sansa? You're too pretty to be so drab. And that cheap brown dye must be killing your roots.” She looked to Petyr, head tilted. “Did you know she’s naturally a redhead?”

Petyr smirked into his scotch, remembering a very specific point of red. “Oh, I’m intimately familiar.”

Margaery cackled, Asha barely contained a spit-take, and Sansa — the tortured thing — turned a delectable shade of pink as she fruitlessly attempted to hide her embarrassment behind her hands, muttering, “Why did I agree to this again?”

  


**Fourth Round: 11:20 PM**  
Two waters, One pint of beer, One dirty martini - two olives

  


“So _wait wait wait_ ,” Asha’s words were slightly slurred half-way through her fourth beer. “You own a shippin’ company. How many bars ag’in? You know wha,” she shook her head, “duhsn’t matter. ‘N you’re some hot shot money man? Damn, Sansaaa! Ya got you’self a fine ass daddy!”

Sansa buried her face, while Petyr tried to contain his own mirth at the insinuation. “If you mean, that the father of my child is well off… ”

Margaery cut in, hand slapping the table between them, giant toothy grin on her face. “Oh honey, no. That is totally _not_ what she means.” As if it weren’t very clear that Sansa was trying to defuse a potentially mortifying moment of drunken rambling.

“Yes, I’m aware,” Sansa said pointedly, her eyes dagger sharp as they aimed at her friend. “Thank you for the clarification, Marge.”

“Anytime cupcake! Pew pew!” Finger guns. The woman actually brought out finger guns. Petyr barked a laugh even as Sansa hid her face in his shoulder.

The two women were completely and utterly blattered, and it was easily the most amusing evening he’d had in sometime. He’d sipped lightly at his own drinks in respect to Sansa’s teetotalling state, but her friends clearly had zero compunction about doing so.

Leaning up to his ear, she whispered quietly, “I am so, so sorry. They usually aren’t-” She paused, seeming to rethink her statement. “Actually, yeah, they are normally like this, but I swear they don’t mean anything by it.”

His hand slipped to sit at the small of her back, the action bringing her a touch closer. “It’s alright, Sansa. It’s all in good fun. A sugar daddy is probably one of the more complimentary things I’ve been called over the years.” He waggled his brows at her, and she flashed a timid smile.

“I just don’t want you to think that I encouraged _this_ behavior.” Her fingers plucked a fold in his shirt. “I don’t think of you like that.”

Eyes hooded, he witnessed as her own deep blue, thickly lashed eyes lifted to meet his own. “And how do you think of me, sweet girl?”

Heat suffused her face as she averted her gaze, and Petyr mused to himself about what could have caused such response. Attraction had been evident in their interactions from the start. Even when discussing the most serious of topics, he seemed incapable of preventing himself from reaching out for her. For her part, she never rebuffed him. Here and now, she was the one engaging him, leaning into him, whispering in his ear, and encapsulating him in her very essence — that sweet citrusy aroma that she always seemed to wear. 

“What do you say we have a little fun at their expense?’

“How do you mean?”

“They’re clearly trying to make you and I uncomfortable with their assumptions. So let’s give them a show.”

“Assumptions which you feed,” she charged. Still, her eyes lit up at the possibilities even as she worried her lip. “What did you have in mind?”

Petyr gave her his most devilish grin before drawing Sansa up as he stood.

“Hey, where are you guys going?” called Margaery.

“I feel like a little dancing. And what better person, than the most beautiful woman in the pub.” Asha and Margaery’s eyes widened a fraction at that; a silent conversation of looks.

Hand in hand, the two of them weaved their way through the cluster of tables, only pausing at the bar so Petyr could whisper something in one of the waitress’s ears. When they emerged on the floor, a slow melodic jazz tune came through on the overhead speakers, and Petyr pulled Sansa into his arms.

_♪ At last ♪_  
_♪ My love has come along ♪_  
_♪ My lonely days are over ♪_  
_♪ And life is like a song ♪_

Sansa looked past a smug Petyr, and he had no doubt her friends’ jaws were on the floor. “Laying it on a bit thick aren’t you?” she teased him.

“Am I?”

“Yes.” Still, she played along, resting her head on his shoulder. “They like you, you know. And they know we’re not actually seeing each other.”

“Do they now?” he hummed.

“Mmhmm.” His hand dipped lower in response, grazing over the round of her ass. She flinched, but didn't move awa“You’re really committing to this ruse aren’t you?” He could hear the smile in her voice.

“Is it working?” he asked her as they swayed, locked in a tight embrace.

“I can’t tell from here, but knowing them, I’m sure tongues are wagging.” She nuzzled deeper into his neck, and he could feel the warm wisps of her breath as they drifted under the edges of his collar.

His fingers flexed over her own. “We can only hope.”

“I will admit — aside from tweaking their noses — this is nice. I honestly can’t remember the last time I danced like this.”

“I find that hard to believe. A girl as lovely as you? The boys should be lining up to hold you like this.”

“Boys don’t generally like girls who are taller than themselves.”

“I don’t mind.” He let his eyes roam over the breasts that were pressed salaciously against his own chest; close enough that he could lave the salt from her skin. “I quite like the perks.”

Sansa caught his barely concealed glance. “You’re terrible. You know that, right?”

He grinned, pearly whites on full display. “So you keep telling me. I’m surprised you haven’t tossed me out like moldy bread.”

“What can I say?” She shrugged. “You’ve grown on me.”

“I see what you did there. From sugar daddy to yeast loving bacterium. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.”

Sansa erupted in a fit of giggles, lifting her head to see his face. “I’m serious, though. I do like your company.”

H sat the hand he was holding on his chest, his palm coming to rest gently against her jaw. “Do you really?”

Her cheek pressed subtly against him, a beautiful flush radiating out from her smile, and Petyr found himself leaning into her, his lips a soft caress against her own, slightly parted. He tasted the ginger beer she’d been drinking on the tip of his tongue. And just as quickly, they were gone. When Petyr opened his eyes, Sansa’s own looked wide, uncertain about what had just occurred. There were no words exchanged, the girl merely resting her head on him once again as he retook her hand.

A quiet minute passed.

Her voice was hardly discernible over the the somber tones of piano. “Why did you kiss me?”

“Because I wanted to.” A simple answer, and the truth.

“So, this…” Sansa gulped. “It wasn’t just to get back at my friends. Was it?”

His lips brushed against her temple. “No. It wasn't.”

The music stopped and when they pulled apart, Sansa’s eyes were full of unasked questions.

“Take me home, Petyr.”

* * *

This was a massive fuck up. He’d overshot his gamble, and Sansa would want nothing to do with him once he’d driven her home. She was too quiet, too still where he watched her from his periphery. An apology for his presumption sat like a lump in his throat, but he’d thus far been unable to bring it to his lips.

Pulling up to the curb, he let the engine idle. His tongue tied. He hand found his where it tensed against the wheel. When he finally dared to glance in her direction, her face was warm, smiling.

“Have a cuppa with me?”

That was not the response he expected to what transpired less than an hour ago. He nodded slowly, on autopilot, his voice not his own. “Okay.”

Killing the engine, he escorted Sansa into her home. She kicked off her shoes at the door, and threw her purse on the coffee table before skimming past the kitchen, and veering headlong towards the bedroom. Petyr stood dumbfounded before trailing tentatively after her. 

She popped out of the room almost as quickly as she’d disappeared into. An apparition. “Ugh. I can’t get the blasted zipper.” She spun, lifting the cumbersome hair off her neck. “Help me?”

Petyr felt dizzy. Like he was in the middle of one of those out of body experiences he’d heard about at one time. The pounding of his blood drowning out all sound, his body moving of its own volition. He grasped the tab, pulling gently, watching as inch by inch, the notches of her spine were revealed to him. Half way down he realized she wasn’t wearing a bra, but he was certain she had been in the bar. He breathed deep — closing his eyes, savoring the sweet perfume that drifted off Sansa — and the resulting exhale ghosted over her naked flesh. She shivered beneath his hands.

In fascination, he observed her; the practiced way she twirled to face him, the light shimmy of her shoulders as the garment slithered down her arms to pool in the floor, revealing full, rosy tipped breasts that he’d fantasized about tormenting with his mouth countless times since that clandestine evening so many months ago. The heat in her blue eyes seared into him as she stepped forward, hooking a finger between the buttons of his shirt, tugging him enticingly towards the bedroom. 

Her voice a sultry rasp. “Are you coming, Mr. Baelish?”

* * *

If someone had asked Petyr a month ago if he’d had any plans to woo and make love to the young woman in his arms, he would have said no. It wasn’t a prudent gesture by any stretch of the imagination to seduce the future mother of his child. And it was his child. Even without the confirmation of the test results, he knew. It was so vastly different to what he went through with Lysa from the very beginning, and he felt that distinction emphatically, down to his core.

He nuzzled into the brown tresses that draped over Sansa’s swan-like neck. They had spent the night rediscovering one another, and now her warm frame was fitted neatly into his. His arm draped around her, hand positioned just over the swell that was starting to show. She smelled of sweat and sex and a sweetness all her own. He’d barely allowed himself to nod off, completely enthralled with observing her in sleep. There was also that niggling portion, that one pessimistic aspect of his personality, that argued that this was all dream; that he would wake up in his own bed tomorrow, and none of this will have happened.

The sun was just starting to tip over the horizon. He blinked the sleep from his eyes as they adjusted to the emerging light; the room slowly illuminating in violet hues. Sansa stirred slightly, the smooth curves of her body brushing up against his groin, inciting his length to stand in attention. He withheld a groan even as the idea cemented in his mind.

His lips were the first to seek out the temptation, planting a plodding path along her jaw, trailing down the elongated column of her throat until they landed at her pulse. It thrummed. Its beat steadily increasing as his tongue dipped out to lave the salt collected there from last night's exertions. She purred — eyes still closed, heavy with unfinished dreams — as her hand reached behind her to grasp at his hip possessively. 

“Good morning,” she sighed.

“It could be better.” The pads of his fingers grazed down, drawing arcane patterns against smooth skin. Down and down, through wispy tufts to dip between her folds, to tease the tiny peak there. A soft moan, legs parted ever so slightly allowing him deeper access. 

“Oh? How’s that?” she asked, all mock innocence.

The muscles and tendons of his arms stretched taut until his fingers slipped inside without warning. Sansa gasped, back arching. Only then did he answer. “I could be inside you right now.”

She half twisted to face him, and her eyes sparkled like the ocean. “Then why aren’t you?”

Petyr’s grin was a fiendish thing. “A very pertinent question, Miss Stark.” He kissed her then. Sansa’s smiling lips parted without hesitation, damp muscle meeting his in an equal push and pull of want. Her body twisted, arms and legs binding round him until she lay open to him; his erection dragging slow and precise along the furrow between her legs. Sweet, delicious friction. Her hips bucked, desire consuming all reason. 

“Petyr, please.”

He growled, catching her lips, stealing the very breath from her lungs as he sheathed himself _excruciatingly slow_ , letting her feel every inch as she stretched around him. A soft breathy whimper was the only the noise between them.

Heaven. He was in heaven. Sansa was so wet, so tight, so open and accepting. And she wanted _him_ , and that was a potent aphrodisiac in itself. 

“Oh, Sansa. Sansa, you have no idea, no idea…” he whispered against her neck, thrusting slow, steady. It wasn’t enough. She was writhing beneath him, nails digging into his back as her body begged for more, but he would not relent. Not yet. He wanted to savor this — her. His head lifted, his gaze boring into her. “I wanted you from the first moment I saw you.” Petyr hadn’t meant for that to come out. Yet…

Sansa’s mouth snagged his. “You have me.” Again, teeth raking over his lips. “I’m yours, Petyr. I’m yours. _Please_.” It was a whine, high and breathy.

Only a fool would believe such sweet words tossed out carelessly at the height of passion, but oh how Petyr wanted to. There was nothing between them. No latex, no clothing. The feel of her body, the way she held on, gripped him in the most intimate of ways; she felt like paradise. Like this was the way it was always meant to be. As though everything that came before, all the failed relationships, the endless attempts to better himself, to _be_ better than all the snot nosed bougie kids he had to grow up with, deal with, work with, was finally, _finally_ paying off. That it was all just the detour leading _him_ to _her_. He wondered if she felt it, too — this certainty.

Petyr’s arms tightened, holding on to her as if life depended on it, his pace quickening, maddening. He was going to leave bruises. He didn’t care.

“Yes. God, yes! Just like that. Don’t stop, Petyr. Don’t you dare stop,” she pleaded.

There was not even air between them now. Her nipples grazing his chest; his pelvic bone purposefully punctuating every forceful slam of his hips, grinding against her just the way she needed. He was merciless in his pursuit, drenched in sweat. Her eyes fever bright where they shined amidst feathery lashes; she was the most devastatingly beautiful creature he’d ever beheld. And her words echoed: _I’m yours. I’m yours._

_Mine_.

The thought alone was enough to reach into the dregs of his battered soul and wrench out the decrepit, dried out husk that used to be his heart. Against all sanity and reason, it was hers now, as she was his.

A cry was ripped from her throat. Her head snapped back, back arched. The walls encasing him squeezed, milking, trapping him deeper even as he continued to thrust. Watching her come transfixed him; the elongation of her neck, the way her hair splayed across the pillow, the way her skin glistened. But he didn’t let up, driving into her until he reached oblivion, her name on the tip of his tongue as he spent himself deep within.

Exhaustion left him limp, and he slumped down, his ear to her chest. The calming thud of her heart offering guidance to his own. Overcome, he kissed her there, where the sweat was pooling between her breasts, laving the moisture with his tongue before he anointed each rosy peak with his lips.

Sansa purred, her fingers threading into his hair. “Now that _was_ a good morning.”

She laughed full and sweet, and he wanted to make her laugh like that everyday for as long she’d allow. “Mmm… I need shower.”

“Correction,” Petyr flashed his most lascivious grin. “ _We_ need shower.”

* * *

They didn’t make love again. Petyr feeling far too spent after intensity of their coupling, but he showed her his feelings in the ways he could: running the soapy cloth over her every inch, shampooing her darkened locks, kissing her senseless as the bubbles rinsed clean away.

And now she was cooking breakfast for the two of them. Eggs and toast, sliced tomato and avocado. No savory meats, as she was still sensitive to the smell, but it was all perfect to Petyr. There was something palliative to his soul, being with her like this. It was a domestic situation that he’d honestly never experienced; not even as a boy.

A part of him wondered if this is what it would have been like with Cat had they worked things out, but that tenet was dismissed almost immediately. It took years of therapy and a lot of maturing to understand just how ill-suited he and Cat had been. She was strictly set in her principles, her morals superseding all reason. Whereas, Petyr prided himself on his flexibility, his ability to see and understand that there was no such thing as black or white, good or bad. It was fitting that they combusted as they had, even if it did lead to some of the hardest fought years of his life.

Sansa — despite being Cat’s daughter — was nothing like her. She saw the grey in the world. Accepted it, and chose to try and make it better where she could. That’s the only reason he felt confident enough to tell her the truth now — all of it. Even the parts that he’d rather forget and never speak of again.

A plate filled with food was placed in front him where he sat along the counter. “This looks delicious,” he complimented before tucking in.

The girl beamed as she rounded the counter to sit beside him. “Thanks! I’m not much of a cook, but breakfast is the one thing I excel at.”

“I’ll make a note to always be here for breakfast, then.”

Sansa’s cheeks pinkened at his implication. A pleasing thought, he hoped.

“Sansa, when you first came to me with all this,” She could infer here he meant the pregnancy, “I was a bit leery to share much with you. It’s something I’ve always done. A defense mechanism to keep myself from getting hurt. You asked me about the past with your mother then, but I wasn’t ready. Given these last few weeks and what happened last night (and this morning), I thought maybe it was time to answer that question.”

Sansa swallowed the bite she’d been chewing, her mouth opening, ready to respond-

_knockknockknock_

An exasperated sigh followed. “Hold that thought. It’s probably my neighbor thinking I stole his paper again.” She jumped out of her seat to answer the door. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell him that no one reads the bloody paper anymore.”

The door swung open. “Sansa, sweetie!”

Oh, shit. Petyr knew that voice.

“Mom, what-” Kiss, kiss against each cheek. “What are you doing here?”

The lithe older woman barged past her daughter, tucking her sunglasses into her purse, oblivious to the man frozen and slack-jawed at the kitchen counter. “Brienne — I don’t know if you remember her actually — has been bugging me the last two weeks to come up for a visit, and I finally just gave in, and figured I’d visit my dear daughter as well.”

Finally, she picked up her head, blue eyes immediately catching his own. Shock and awe.

He swallowed. “Cat.”

“Petyr?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah, hey. Guess what I did all weekend? :D
> 
> Quick note: Wow did I just edit the fuck out of the bar scene. Also, for those not familiar, a Blowjob is a type of shot. I'm all about the cheap jokes. ;)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from two POVs and it is not linear. Please keep that in mind as you read.

Catelyn Stark, née Tully, glared openly at the man before her — no doubt imagining the grip on her purse was instead Petyr’s imperiled neck as the skin over her knuckles grew tauter by the second. Her reedy voice was terse, eyes flicking to her daughter in accusation. “Sansa, what is going on here? Is this some sort of sick joke? Because if it is, I don’t find it funny in the least.” 

“No. No, I-” Sansa released her deathgrip on the doorknob to tighten the thin cotton robe that did little to conceal the _scant_ clothing she had on beneath and cross her arms. “ I didn’t even know you were coming.” 

“Well thank God I did before this — ” an irate Cat said as she motioned around the room, “whatever _this_ is — goes any farther!” A nude polished finger was brandished in his direction as she advanced on him. Petyr jumped off the stool with his hands raised, clumsy feet tripping him up as he maneuvered behind the defensible counter in retreat. “You! You slimy, little worm! You get out of my daughter’s home! Now!”

A perturbed shock registered on Sansa’s face as though she’d never heard such condescending language from her beloved parent. Perhaps, she hadn’t. 

“Mother!” Sansa rushed forward, bravely throwing herself between Petyr and the vitriol being hurled his way.

Petyr’s tone was apologetic and soft, even as his mind braced for the worse blows to come. “Please, Cat, just let me explain. Let _us_ explain.”

“Us?” Horror filled her mother’s face as she recoiled backward, collapsing into one the chairs in the den. “Is it an us?” The question knocked out of her in disbelief.

Sansa rubbed at her temple, moistened her lips, before dropping to sit at her mother’s feet. “It’s complicated, Mum.” Petyr dared to step behind her letting his hand fall to her shoulder to show their solidarity.

His maneuver did not go unnoticed by Cat and her face fell into a scowl. “Was it not enough that you shamed me with Lysa? Now you…” She bit the back of her hand as she sank further into the seat, and Petyr felt Sansa go ridged under his hand. Fuck, he didn’t want it to come out like this.

“It wasn’t like that and you know it,” defended Petyr. “I tried to explain, but you wouldn’t listen.”

“How dare you! Don’t you try and blame me for what happened! You’re the one who got himself thrown in jail!” she accused.

“Because I was trying to impress you and all those rich, cocky bastards you called friends!”

“You were selling drugs!”

His hands flew up in the air as he stepped back, exasperated. “Oh please. It was fucking pot, and it wasn’t even the good shite.”

“Oh! You’re impossible!” Cat fumed. “For God’s sake, where is your father?” she wailed, extracting a handkerchief from her purse to press at the corners of her eyes. Petyr thought that was a bit melodramatic seeing as how she’d shown no sign of tears up to this point. Sansa, on the other hand, overlooked her mother’s theatrics, her eyes bulging in alarm.

“Dad is here?” _Bloody hell._

A gentle rapping brought all their heads snapping to the door as it was quietly pushed open to reveal the broad-shouldered form of Eddard Stark. His dark hair shielded his eyes as he stepped over the threshold to close the door. “Janey Mack, but parking has gone to shite around here. I swear I had to drive halfway to town. Did ya know some jackanape left his Mercedes in your space?”

The mild irritation on his face gave way to confusion at the sight of his wife dabbing at her eyes, and his precious daughter on her knees. “Look at the state of you. What’s got you both so worked up?” 

The flame of Catelyn’s eyes could cut for all the fury in them, and they landed on Petyr. Stepping further in the room, Ned’s own muted greys followed their path until the slight figure in Sansa’s flat came in to view. Petyr could see the parade of thoughts looping through Ned’s mind at the state of Sansa and his own undress — more butane for the fire. 

“Mac soith!” _Son of a bitch!_

Though Petyr wore not a stitch of red, the bullheaded Stark charged. This time Petyr didn’t have a chance to scurry behind the barrier to safety; Ned’s long legs eating the space between them with rapidity. The biting grip of Ned’s hands through his shirt tore at Petyr’s chest, catching the hair as he was lifted, smashed against the blunt hewed edge of the countertop; his own fingers struggled to pry the bigger man off, legs kicked out in an attempt to find purchase. Through the pounding of his blood he could hear the clang of the stools as they were knocked over, Sansa’s concerned cries. A meaty fist was raised, and Petyr felt the sudden gush of pain lance through his cheek, slamming his head back against the hard surface under him. He went dizzy and slack, even as calloused hands clasped round his throat in a mimicry of Cat’s own grip from earlier. 

“Maróidh mé thú!” _I’ll kill you!_

The splash of spittle from Ned’s stale-breathed declaration was enough to jerk Petyr back to himself; his nails digging into his assailants wrists as he fought again to free himself. Through his blurry, air deprived gaze, he saw Sansa over her father’s shoulder trying as hard as she could to pull the man off, and even Cat making a bid to do the same at his other side(though her efforts held decidedly less urgency).

“Daddy!” Sansa’s voice was harried and pleading. “Daddy, stop! Stop it! You’re hurting him!”

Through clenched teeth, Ned growled, “Sort of the point, sweetie.” The grasp at Petyr’s neck tightened. 

Sansa disappeared from Petyr’s vision, his own hands falling away as a dark cloud descended, his field of vision narrowing to a pinpoint of light. 

“I’m pregnant!” 

A ghastly quiet filled the room as her parents were rendered dumbstruck.

Petyr gasped, eyes shot open as the vice around his neck fell away. His back arching(and aching) as he sucked much needed air into his lungs along with the lingering scents of their now cold breakfast splattered across the floor; the profiles and colors of the people and objects in the room coming back into focus. _Oh, sweet beautiful oxygen!_ One hand rubbed at his throat and the other stabilized him as he staggered away from Ned on wobbling legs, making damn sure there was at least one large barrier between himself and the man who damn near killed him. The object in question was the glass coffee table at the opposite end of the room(which in retrospect was not the best location if the bastard decided to attack him again).

“What?” Cat’s jaw dropped, face deflated; ire given way to bewilderment, and Ned’s own expression her perfect mate. Her distressed blue eyes bounced between the pair until her gaze dropped to rest at Sansa’s slightly rounding belly, only noticeable if one knew what lie beneath the robe. Sansa self-consciously wrapped her arms around herself under her mother’s glare, and the kerchief that was locked tight in Cat’s palm raised to cover her lips, sagging lids closed. Making the sign of the cross she muttered beneath her breath, “Oh Lord, please give me strength.” She righted one of the stools, and affixed herself at the counter, elbows resting atop it as her hands clutched each other in a semblance of prayer.

Ned’s own nostrils flared as he gulped down heaving breaths; the adrenaline rush that fueled him now subsiding, reason trickling in. A hand swept over his face, brushing back the disheveled mop on top of his head, the pattern of the carpet absorbing all his attention. “Pregnant?” Tired eyes raised. “Whose?” The question asked so simply; a willful ignorance of the truth that stood before him clad in nothing more than burgundy boxers and grey undershirt. Petyr could almost laugh except that his throat seemed to be filled with broken glass, and he had no desire to tempt the man’s fury once again.

To her credit, Sansa didn’t balk at the obtuse inquiry or obscure the facts. She planted herself next to the elephant in the room, wrapping his palm in her own, standing tall against her parents’ judgment. “Petyr’s.”

Ned’s jaw tensed, fist clenching and unclenching at his side; a whirlwind of emotions passing behind his eyes as he contemplated his daughter’s confession. 

“How long?” came Cat’s quiet voice. The undercurrent of disappointment palpable, freezing the air.

Sansa held her chin out, exuding a confidence that wasn’t there. “I’m fourteen weeks along.”

“ _No_ ,” Cat explained with thinning patience, “I mean, how long has this,” she gestured between them, “been going on? How long have you been hiding this from us?” The word _relationship_ didn’t pass her lips, and Petyr thought that was rather on purpose.

Unfortunately, out of all the questions her mother could ask, explaining to her that this — the pregnancy, the man in her home, their relationship (such that it was) — was the result of a one night stand was probably the hardest. Petyr felt Sansa’s self-assurance buckle, witnessed her gaze lower to stare blankly at her interrogator's clenched fists.

With the color now drained from her face, Sansa sputtered, “I-” 

“It doesn’t matter.” The cold, rumbling calm of Ned’s voice filled the apartment.

Cat burst from her seat. “How can you say that?! It does matter! You know it does!”

“No, mo mhuirnín.” _My darling._ “It’s done. Knowing when and how won’t change what is.”

“Oh? So you’re accepting this now, are you?!” Cat’s cheeked flamed with indignation. “This- This lecher! This cheat! This _drug dealer_ with our Sansa!”

Petyr winced. _Goddammit_. This was the very reason he wanted to speak with Sansa first. When he dared a peek at her expression, her gaze was scattered, her lips slack even as they mouthed the infernal words to herself. He wanted to — needed to — pull her away from the scene playing out before them, but Cat — ever the dramatist — was not finished her her charade. 

“What about what he did to me?! What he did to _Lysa_?!” she cried. Cat clung to Ned’s stalwart frame, face contorted as she looked from her daughter and back to him.

“Lysa?” The question asked to the room rather than anyone in particular. She didn’t catch it the first time, and Petyr supposed it was too much to hope that she’d miss it again. Her eyes narrowed on Petyr. Her hand dropped from where it held his. “What does my Aunt Lysa have to do with any of this?”

Like a banshee, the woman who’d stripped away his innocence and nearly destroyed his future now haunted the room. He could see the black abyss of his imminent demise on the horizon, knowing that the series of events Cat ascribed to and the ones that he recalled were vastly different. 

Seething tendrils of recollection writhed beneath his skin, telling him to run, but it was too late. Here and now in the presence of Cat and Ned — two of the main witnesses of that less than desirable occurrence — he found himself tongue tied; feeling every inch the eighteen year old that was precipitously run off of the Tully estate as old Hoster aimed a hunting rifle at his back.

His mouth opened a fraction, snapped shut again. 

A step back — a tiny, calculated, withdrawal — was taken as Sansa, wide-eyed and unsure, studied the man standing next to her. “Petyr?”

God, was his throat dry. “Sansa, I-” He swallowed down what little saliva he could scrounge for all the good it did him. His voice crunched like gravel. “Remember after our last coffee date? When we talked about our past relationships?” 

Petyr watched as the gears in her head shifted, as the evasive conversation that took place in this very room wound like a tape through her mind. When her lips parted, he knew she remembered — knew that any perceived headway he’d made with her crumbled to ash, washed away with the tide of the single tear that trickled down her cheek. He would be tempted to say that it was as bad as the day Catelyn tossed his engagement ring in the river after his arrest, but the truth is, it felt worse. 

The pads of her fingers swiped away the moisture on her face, eyes closed as she came to grips with this new information. “I need a minute.”

“Sansa, I know it sounds bad, but-” Sansa was in full retreat, steps rushed but quakey as she snaked away from him, palms raised, to collapse on the sofa. She didn’t run to her parents for comfort or confirmation. At least, there was that.

Then, the harpy started. “Oh don’t you dare use that silver tongue on her! You-”

“Cat, can you _please_ **_shut up_**.” The angry vehemence of Petyr’s voice cut through the room. “This is between me and Sansa.”

“Oh, if you think for one-”

“Cat,” came Ned’s authoritative boom. “We should go.”

“What? Don’t tell me you’re taking his side?!” she accused.

“I’m not taking anyone’s side, but the fact of the matter is we cannot do anything here.” He looked to Sansa crumpled in her seat. His voice soft, “Sansa needs to figure this out on her own.” Cat gaped at her husband, clearly displeased with his assessment, but when it looked as though she might argue, Ned whispered in her ear. Her fiery eyes closed, face crumpled, and when she opened them again there was a quiet understanding, and she nodded her assent before turning around to gather her things from the counter.

For the first time ever, Petyr was thankful for Ned Stark’s intervention. Even broken clocks are right twice a day. Ned gave Petyr a wide berth as he came around to his daughter’s side to kiss the top of her head. “You know where we are if you need us.” Silently they left, leaving a wake of chaos behind.

Words had always been Petyr’s forte, but even he wasn’t entirely sure where to begin now that they were alone. He rubbed his hands, damp with sweat over the front of his boxers before taking a seat across the table from her. It was a reversal of the very first time they’d sat in this room together. That time it was she who was afraid he wouldn’t want to be a part of their child’s life, her life. Now, it was he who was afraid she would cut him out. 

He rallied himself for the discussion to come, planting elbows to knees, chin to clenched fists. Overlooking her distraught state, Petyr softened his voice to barely above a whisper, “What do you want to know?”

* * *

It was early enough in the day that the docks were still at a low bustle, and Sansa’s gaze flit between the few vessels leaving port. She used to do this a lot as a girl; during those instances when the pressure from her parents, her friends, her life was too much. Just watch the boats and imagine where they were going, what they were carrying. Her favorites were always the expansive yachts that would occasionally slip in for refueling. What prince or princess was on board living their best in leisurely sunshine? Such a simple life.

The game wasn’t giving her much comfort this morning.

Her mind was too haunted. Petyr’s words, his explanations, coursing through her memory like an old timey newsreel — certain phrases, certain actions, highlighted and glaring. She leant into the wind, closed her eyes and breathed in the briney air.

“Sansa?” She turned in the direction from whence the call came. Asha in a blue button-up under a brown, suede vest with hip hugging slacks was swaggering towards her. Of course, Sansa knew she worked for her father down by the docks, but she didn’t expect to run into her on a Sunday morning. 

Ducking her head, Sansa tried to compose her face to something less beleaguered; plastering on a smile as she pulled back the loose tendrils of her auburn hair, she spun round to face her friend with a wan smile, squinting in the early morning light. “Hey, Asha.”

“Hey.” It almost came out a question as she looked around. “What are you doing out here so early?”

“Nothing, really.” Sansa shrugged, glanced back over the choppy waves. “Just… wanted to get some fresh air.” A whiff of something on the breeze set her stomach to grumble, and she was keenly aware that the apple she’d eaten this morning before riding her bike to the pier was lacking. Noticing the brown bag in Asha’s hand, she asked, “What do ya have there?”

“Breakfast for the fam,” Asha replied. “Business meeting this morning and my turn to buy.”

“Don’t suppose you have a little extra in there for your poor, starving pregnant friend?” Sansa cajoled, and Asha laughed.

The paper bag crinkled as Asha dipped in to pull out an over-sized breakfast muffin, brimming with blueberries. “Here, take Theon’s. He’s been an ass lately. I’ll just tell him they miscounted at the bakery.”

Ravenous, Sansa tore into the fluffy baked good. “Thanks,” she said, voice muffled around a juicy berry before swallowing. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was until just now.”

“No problem. Now,” Asha demanded, “tell me why you’re really out here.”

Imperceptibly, Sansa shook her head, licking a crumb from her thumb. “No reason.”

“Please.” Asha rolled her entire head in disbelief. “I saw your face before, and I know you well enough to know that you don’t watch the harbor unless you’re working through something.”

“Am I that predictable?” Sansa sighed, kicking a rock at her feet.

“Only to me,” Asha teased, wrapping her arm Sansa’s bare shoulders, nudging her into step. “Come on, spill.”

“My parents surprised me with a visit yesterday,” she said, picking at the muffin as they walked along the bank.

“And?” Asha prompted.

Sansa’s blue gaze lifted to her friend before dropping quickly again. “Petyr was there.”

“Petyr was there?” Brown eyes narrowed on her friend before she understood, and eyes widen incredulously as she barked a laugh. “Oh! _Petyr was there._ I didn’t know you two were actually…” She gestured obscenely with her hands. “I thought…”

Scarlet suffused Sansa’s neck and cheeks as she bit back a grin. “Well, we weren’t. Not until that night.”

“And Mom and Pop got a surprise peek into their daughter’s sex life?” Asha teased gleefully, giving a quick poke with her elbow to her friend.

Sansa slapped her away, and her face soured. “Understatement of the year.” 

“So you’re seeing an older guy. What’s the big deal? They’ll get over it. Especially once they see the cute baby you two made. I’ve yet to meet parents who didn’t indulge their grandkids.”

“It’s not just that,” Sansa reflected. “I didn’t tell you and Marge everything.” Asha gave her _a look_. “My parents and Petyr — there’s a history.”

Asha’s feet paused as she raked over her friend’s pensive posture. “Explain.”

Sansa gulped down the air, leaned against the railing as she debated with herself just how much to relate. Asha was one of her oldest friends, and while Sansa didn’t think she’d judge Petyr for the juvenile mistakes he made twenty-five years ago, she didn’t want to denigrate him in her friend’s eyes either. He was still the father of her child, and… a friend? Maybe? She shook away the thought, not wanting to focus on their personal relationship too deeply at present. “Petyr and my mother… They were together.”

“Biblically?” Asha said eyebrows raised in interest.

“No.” Sansa scrunched her eyes closed as she blew off the implication. “No. But they were engaged.”

“Uh, Sans, usually when people are engaged they…” She snapped and popped her hands together. “Ya know?”

“Well, my mum isn’t everyone,” Sansa said defensively. “She always said she was virgin when she married my dad, and Petyr never said anything to make me doubt that.”

“Okay. Fine. Whatever.” Asha sighed as she pushed the hair from her face. “So what? There’s bad blood from the breakup still?”

“More than a little,” Sansa explained. “Technically, Mum broke things off, but Petyr didn’t take it well. The same day they broke it off, he went and got blackout drunk.” He brow creased as she struggled to force out the next words. “He wound up in bed with my aunt that night.”

“Oh snap!”

Sansa ignored her friend’s outburst, swallowing down the bile threatening to come up. “Mum caught them in bed the next morning. Petyr says he doesn’t remember anything about that night, but Aunt Lysa turned up pregnant the next month.”

“Fuuuuuck.” Asha grimaced. “Please don’t tell me your brat-nosed cousin is his kid?”

“No.” _Could have been_. “She had a miscarriage. He thinks that’s what happened anyway.” Petyr explained it all. She was aghast, speechless by the time he finished telling her of the events that took place fifteen years ago. The promotion, the information he seduced from Lysa, the events that led both he and Uncle Jon in a hellish circle until Robert was born. 

“Thinks?”

“Petyr wasn’t around. He’d already moved back here, and by the time he heard it was over.”

“Shit. That is... “ Asha bit her lip. “I could see how that could cause bad blood.”

“What the hell do I do?” Tears. Damn, she thought she’d spent them all. She wiped them away with the back of her hand. “I didn’t know half this shite yesterday, and now… god…” Sansa shoved the muffin into her face to stop the incoming flood of sobs. 

“Hey,” Asha brought her in for a hug. “It’s gonna be okay.” Sansa buried her face into her friend’s shoulder, accepting her embrace even though it did little to soothe her turbulent mind. “Do they know you’re pregnant?”

Swallowing heavily, Sansa confirmed her assumption with a nod. 

“And Petyr…” Asha licked her lips. “He still wants to be there for you?”

“Yeah.”

“And you still want to go through with it? Having the baby?”

“Of course, I do. I just… How do I even begin to unravel this?”

Asha pulled back, held her by the shoulders as their eyes met. “Well, I’m no expert, but I think that — so long as you are certain Petyr is in it for the long haul — you should handle your parents first. Try to make amends, make them see that this isn’t the end of the world.”

“And how exactly do I manage that?” Sansa stepped out of Asha’s grasp, threaded fingers through her hair as she turned back to the murky blue water, settling against the fence that lined the harbor. “You didn’t see their faces yesterday,” she said against her balled fist.

“School is almost out, right? You always go home during break. Talk to them, Sansa. They’re shocked, disappointed maybe…” Sansa scoffed, but that didn’t deter Asha, “ _but they’re still your parents_. They love you. Give them a chance.”

“And Petyr? How can I be with him knowing all that I know?”

“Do you want to be with him? Romantically?”

Fresh tears pooled in the corners of her eyes, but an answer wouldn’t form on her tongue.

* * *

Petyr arrived at his home on Saturday morning to a cruel twist of the knife. The paternity test results that he had been patiently waiting for having arrived with the previous day’s post. He thought it was oddly undramatic that such a huge, potentially life-changing news be contained within a standard-sized, white envelope, yet here it was pinched between his fingers. He didn’t even bother sitting down before opening its contents, thumb nail catching the flap preceding the rip heard round the room.

**Probability of Paternity : 99.9996%**

As expected.

He let the letter flutter atop the nearest table he passed on his way to the liquor cabinet. It wasn’t even noon, but it had already been a hell of day, and the violence he endured under Ned Stark’s big buffoon hands left a persistent sting in his throat that begged to be anesthetized. The man always had a quick temper, even when they were young. The glass of brandy he’d poured himself burned therapeutically on its way down. The pain of it dulling the pain of remembering Sansa’s face as he explained every sordid detail of his past to her. He winced as the drink bottomed out, and poured another.

Sansa would never allow him back into her life. Their kid’s life, maybe, but not hers; not after what she’d learned today. The completely gutted expression she wore as he left told him that. He drank a second glass to the loss of her. He drank the third for his own petulant, self-loathing.

The ultrasound image from all those weeks ago was pulled from his pocket. He’d nicked it from the mirror above her vanity before he left. Viewing the blurry likeness of the person he helped create, Petyr was filled with wonder. And fear. So much fucking fear. For the first time since Sansa had come to him, he decided that perhaps it was time to plan for the worst of eventualities.

By his fourth dram, Petyr was suitably numb; dispassionate digits dialing his solicitor.

* * *

Petyr’s buzzing phone woke him from his Monday morning haze.

Sansa: I’m going to Cork.  
Sansa: To visit my parents.  
Sansa: I just thought you should know.

Petyr: Thank you for telling me.

…

Petyr: When will you be back?

Sansa: A week maybe?  
Sansa: We should talk  
Sansa: When I get back that is

Petyr: We should.

* * *

**Six days later...**

”I drew up the paperwork just as you asked.” The old man slid the manilla folder over the desk. “I still don’t think it’s wise.”

“I’m aware.” Petyr cast him a cool glance before he perused the documents inside.

The offices of Barbrey, Marwyn, and Pycelle specialized in family law. The man before him, Pycelle, looked like doddering old fool, but Petyr had seen him in court over the years; watched gleefully as he eviscerated Cersei Lannister regarding her infidelity. It was a well-honed act the man used to disarm his opponents, and more surprisingly, it worked. 

Another beat. “The girl would have to be daft not to agree. The monetary incentives alone would set her up for the rest of her life.”

That should make him feel better. It didn’t. None of this was how he envisioned bringing a child into the world, but Sansa had sequestered herself off, meeting all his messages with silence. The worst case scenarios stacked one atop the other in his mind until finally he sought out the most cutthroat counsel he could afford. 

Maybe it would be enough.

“If everything is in order, I’ll have my man deliver it on Friday. It’s better that way. Gives the recipient a few days to cool off before they try to storm the castle gates.” Pycelle chuckled.

It was then Petyr realized he’d been reading the same line regarding custody over and over. He coughed to break his focus, chest constricting as he passed the papers back. “Yes, that’ll be fine. Whatever you think is best.”

* * *

**Five days previous...**

Bran opened the door with a wide grin. “Sansa!”

Stepping into his arms, she greeted him a big bear hug. “Bran!” She squeezed him tightly before pulling back to look up into his face. “Holy crap! You shot up like a weed!” She laughed as pink spread up to his ears.

“Yeah, I guess,” he wavered, brushing the hair out of his face. “Is it true, then? Am I gonna be an uncle?”

Her smile faltered. “They told you?”

“Not exactly.” He chewed his lip. “I overheard them arguing when they got back Sunday night. A few choice words were on repeat. It didn’t take much to put it together.”

The atmosphere of joviality was sucked away. Sansa collapsed against the door frame, facing into the breeze. “I guess it’s to be expected that you all would find out. I just wish it had been on my terms. Everything seems to be twisting out of my control lately,” she complained. Her fingers dug into the wood of the jamb behind her.

“Hey, come on now,” Bran soothed. “Do you not want it? Is that it?”

“Oh, no!” Sansa was quick to reply. “I want it. It’s just- It’s not how I thought it would be growing up, ya know? I mean, it was all laid out for us: meet the right person, fall in love, get married, have a family. I seem to have skipped a few steps, and it’s made a right muck of things.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. Mum and Dad will adapt. They have to if they love you, right?” 

Bran made it sound so easy. He had no idea just how complicated the issue really was, but his confidence made her want to believe him, and she wore a smile on her face for the first time since it all came crumbling down. “Yeah, you’re right.” She playfully punched his shoulder. “When did you get so smart?”

“It was bound to happen to one of us. May as well be me,” he joked.

“Arse!” she cried as she ruffled his hair. 

“Actually, you have perfect timing,” he said, smoothing out the mess. “Mum’s been complaining about some birds attacking her by the shed. I noticed a nest in there yesterday and was about to go clear it out. Help me with the ladder?”

Sansa was tired from the trip down, but staring behind her brother into the house, she found herself hesitant to enter. Perhaps a small reprieve to build her courage would help. Smiling faintly, Sansa pushed off her perch. “Sure. Why not.”

The shed was a small hike off the back end of the property. It housed miscellaneous yard equipment: the mower, the trimmers, fertilizers, and whatever else didn’t have a place in the house proper. It smelled of glass clippings and manure, and remembrances of her childhood; of all the times she helped her mother with planting and pruning back the flowers and bushes. 

The towering brown head of her little brother surveyed the area until he spotted what he was looking for again; the nest sat at the apex of the roof, nestled against an exposed beam. The ladder was set up in the center of the room, adjacent to a low sitting rafter that Bran could use for leverage. 

“Just hold the legs sturdy for me,” he called over his shoulder as he took the first few rickety steps up.

“Gotcha.” Sansa sat the phone she’d be clutching on a nearby pile of fencing slats. “Whenever you’re ready.”

As Bran ascended, Sansa planted her feet, digging her palms into the decrepit wooden frame ladder. It probably should have been replaced years ago, but her dad was of the ‘waste not want not’ variety. The dubious gathering of wood and metal creaked with each step and Bran braced himself against the nearby brace, pausing just as he reached the last three rungs.

 

He stretched his long, skinny arm out, his fingers just shy of grazing his target, groaning, “Almost there.” He took another step.

“Careful,” Sansa warned amidst an ominous groan of the wood.

Bran managed to touch it, but it was stuck in place. Another step up. The ladder almost tipped, and Sansa’s heart skipped to a furious beat as she barely prevented it from doing so.

“Come on, Bran. It’s not worth it. Please get down.”

“I’ve practically got it,” he argued, his fingers now prying at the tapestry of twigs.

_Thunk! Crack!_

The rung gave way just as Bran’s foot fell to the one beneath it. The nest, whole and safe in his hands.

Sansa felt light headed from the burst of adrenaline. “Jesus Christ, you damn near gave me a heart attack.” 

“Don’t let Mom hear you say that,” he teased. “Besides, I’m fine!” Bran said with an easy smile on his face as he jumped off the last step. “And look! The nest still has an egg.”

“Oh.” Her heart stuttered at the realization of what they’d done. Her hand instinctively covering her own growing bump. “We should put it back.”

“I don’t think the ladder likes that idea,” he returned, kicking the side of it. The poor decrepit thing, already compromised, finally succumbed to it fate, falling into the pile of fencing, sending it all tumbling down in an avalanche of wood and dust.

“Shit!” Sansa shrieked, reeling back from the cloud. “My phone!”

“Oh damn.” Bran placed the nest aside, immediately diving in to help Sansa to sort through the mess, until he spied the little silver device in its glittery case. “Got it!”

Letting out a breath of relief, Sansa swiped it from his hands only to frown. “My screen is broken.” She tapped at it, but it gave no response; the phone was dead, screen too compromised from the crash. She swore, “Dammit. Stupid piece of crap.”

“Sorry,” Bran grimaced.

“It’s alright. I needed a new one anyway. At least you’re in one piece.” Reluctantly, she tucked the phone into the back pocket of her jeans. “So what do we do about that?” she asked, gesturing to the the bespeckled egg in the wiry nest.

“It’s pretty late in the season for hatchlings,” Bran explained as they headed back towards the house, “but I’ll try to candle it when we get back to make sure it’s a dud. If not, maybe I can throw it in the old incubator.”

“Any clue what it might be?” Sansa asked, somewhat out of breath as they climbed the shallow hill. 

“Nah, but I bet my prof will. He’s a big ornithology nut.” A toothy smile creased the freckled face before her. “I’ll send him some pics and see what he says. And hey, maybe I can get a few extra credit points if it hatches.”

A breathy laugh escaped her. “It’s worth a shot.”

Halfway to the house, Sansa noticed her father’s work truck pull into the drive, and her feet faltered in their steps. Bran noticed her reticence, letting his hand sit lightly at her shoulder, silent encouragement to keep moving forward. “You staying the week?” he distracted.

“Hmm?” The exclamation passed her lips before the question could fully register. She blinked for a moment, as his words formed a semblance of sense. “Oh, yeah. Maybe.” Her eyes flashed to Ned entering the house, then back again. “It depends on a few things.” She’d told Petyr a week, but even she wasn’t sure that was a possibility under the circumstances.

The statement was greeted with a nod of understanding, and when they came to the back door, Bran gave Sansa a minute of pause before saying, “You know I’ve got your back if you need me, right?”

Sansa pat his hand, gave it a squeeze between her own much smaller set. “I know.”

* * *

**Six days later…**

Utensils clanked against the dinnerware as the dishes were passed from person to person. Stark family dinners were always loud, always obnoxious, but the air since her visit started had been thick and tonight was no different. Everyone was there save Robb and his wife. Sansa felt every eye on her as she focused on her food, glancing up now and then to watch her family’s eyes avert. It was as though everyone had taken a vow of silence, and no one spoke beyond pleasantries — safe conversation that quickly sputtered out. Her mother’s stern countenance at the end of the table warned that speaking of anything else was unacceptable.

It must have been too much for Arya. She had only arrived herself earlier in the day. It was common for their visits to overlap by a day or two, their personalities clashing violently if pushed beyond such short timeframes. It was obvious she was tired of tiptoeing around the obvious because when Sansa next caught her staring, her sister stared back and asked, “Who’s Petyr Baelish?”

“Arya!” Cat hissed, hand striking the table, water glasses sloshing over their rims.

“What?!” Arya exclaimed, wild eyed. “I heard you and Dad talking about him and Sansa. I just want to know what is going on around here. Nobody tells me anything anymore.”

“It’s not a discussion meant for the dinner table.”

“Then when?” Arya asked, petulant as always.

“Arya,” Ned scolded. “Your mother said not right now. If you have questions for Sansa,” his eyes bounced between them over the fork hovering in front of his mouth, “you can ask her after dinner.”

“Fine,” huffed Arya, adding beneath her breath, “It’s probably just her baby-daddy anyway.” Sansa knew it was meant as a joke, that Arya wasn’t privy to that information yet, but the mention set off her mother’s temper.

“That’s it.” Cat threw her napkin down, chair screeching as she stood. “I can’t. I can’t do this.” And stormed out of the dining room, shoes clattering as she rushed up the stairs.

Ned’s slumped in his chair, hand massaging his temple.

“What’d I do?” asked a confused Arya.

And Bran met Sansa’s eyes over the table, commiserating with her in sympathy.

“Since Mom got to leave, does that mean I can eat my dinner in front of the TV?” asked a clueless Rickon.

Sighing, Ned took in all the faces of all his children. He closed his eyes, nodded. “Yes, go ahead. All of you.” He waved his hand, and a flurry of anxious teenagers (along with Arya) scrambled out of their chairs, plates in hand as they made their way to their preoccupation of choice — only Sansa and Ned remained seated.

Sansa felt like the smallest of the small, tucking her hands beneath her thighs, curled in on herself, eyes glued to her lap. “She’s not going to get over this, is she?”

Ned’s eyes were soft as he took in the defeated look of his eldest daughter, rubbed the bridge of his nose. “She will. She just…” he let out a deep breath, dropping his hand. “She needs time, Sansa.”

Blinking back her tears, Sansa gazed up at the ceiling. “It’s been a week, Dad. A whole week and she’s barely said two words to me, barely looked at me.” 

“She scared for you, sweetheart.” Ned leaned over, reached his out for her, palm up in a offer of comfort. “She’s afraid you’re gonna be left all alone, the same way Lysa was.”

“I’m not a child anymore! If she really expected me to wait until I was married like she did…” Sansa trailed off, and noticed the way her father became visibly uncomfortable. “What?”

Ned cleared his throat, reached for his water. “Nothing.” But he was avoiding her eyes.

“You did wait, right? Mother said you did?”

“If that’s what she said-”

“Dad,” Sansa spurned his deflection.

“Your mother wanted to set a good example for you.” Sucking on his teeth, he seemed to come to a decision. “You know Robb was born six months after our wedding, right?”

“Yeah.” Sansa spouted the explanation she’d been told her whole life. “He was a preemie-”

“How much do you think he weighed?” Her father interjected, and Sansa’s brows shot up, mouth gaped as he answered. “Nine pounds,” he mused into the table, before looking up. “I think you can figure out the truth there.”

“But-” Sansa was flabbergasted.

Ned rapped his knuckles on the table before he pushed up out of his seat to move into a chair closer to his daughter. “I’m only telling you this, so you know that you aren’t alone, that your mother understands what you are going through. What is upsetting her more than anything right now, is that she doesn’t trust Petyr to stick around.”

“So she’s just going to avoid me? Ignore me like I’m not having a baby.” She stared down at her fingers where they twisted at her waist.

“Sansa,” her father begged softly, taking one of her hands in his. He had never been one for overt sentiments of affection. A side-hug here, a kiss to the top of the head there, a quick squeeze of the shoulder when he was proud; yet the warmth, strength, and surety of his hand holding hers was more comforting than anything to her in that moment.

Sniffing away the moisture threatening to escape, Sansa defended, “Petyr isn’t going to leave me. He wants this just as much as I do.”

Ned’s face was solemn. “I won’t pretend that I like him or approve of him. I saw the aftermath of what his actions did to your mother, and I cannot forgive him that, but where are you two going from here?”

“Honestly, I don’t know,” Sansa whispered into her lap. “We haven’t really discussed it.”

“Do you-” He paused as if considering whether really wanted to ask the question. “Do you care for him?”

 _Care for him?_ Sansa gave the word considerable thought before meeting her father’s smokey grey eyes. Squeezing his hand, she assured him, “I do.”

* * *

There was a pounding at his front door, and he could hear the dogs outside barking at the disturbance. It woke Petyr from an alcohol induced sleep (a state in which he’d found himself entirely too often this week), and he tried to clear the blurriness from his eyes, palms rasping over the stubble of his cheeks. The noise ceased, and he cracked an eye open to spy out his window and gauge the time. It was full dark. He was about to roll over, ignore the call to investigate in favor of sleep, when it started again. Groaning, he sat up, pulled on the t-shirt lying at the foot of his bed, and trod angrily to the door. If it’s the goddamn neighborhood kids again, he’s calling Garda. The little shits.

He barely had the chance to pull the door free before Sansa burst in waving papers at him. “What the hell is this?!”

He blinked back his surprise. The ire he felt only moments before melting away under the force of her accusing gaze. Gently, he pushed the door closed with both hands, resting his head a moment against its cold surface as he composed himself. 

“Petyr, answer me,” Sansa pleaded, and he only just realized he’d been froze in place, knuckles white where they wrapped around the knob until he pushed off.

“I’m trying to make things easier on you,” he finally said, turning to face her.

“Easier on me?” Sansa questioned, confusion etched in her features. “By what? Plying me with money and relinquishing your rights?”

“Isn’t that what you want?” he asked sadly.

“No! No, that’s not what I want. Jesus, Petyr.” Sansa paced with a hand to her forehead as she processed his words. Her face unsure as she asked, “Is that what you want?” 

“No. I-” God, how did he even begin explaining his reasoning. He’d been doubting himself ever since he first read over the papers, but he’d always followed his instincts and when they said to give her a way out that’s what he did. 

“Why, Petyr? Tell me.” The sheets in her hand were smacked onto the nearby coffee table.

Petyr charged to the liquor cabinet, but stopped short of pouring himself a drink even though the thirst to drown himself in brandy was very real. “Because your parents hate me. Because my past has ruined,” he gestured between them, ”whatever this was. Because I’m scared.” The latter was a barely audible murmur, but Sansa heard every word.

She padded towards him, close enough to touch, but her arms wrapped around herself instead. “I don’t understand.”

“Of course, you don’t,” and he couldn’t quite keep the derision out of his voice.

“Then explain it to me. Please,” she begged into his back.

“I don’t-” He licked his lips before turning to face her. “I don’t know how to do this. How to be relied on. How to be a father. I thought if I at least provided what I could, you’d be okay. The baby would be okay.” He stepped around her, unable to meet her eyes as they welled with moisture, and took the nearest seat, burying his face in his hands.

“So you think abandoning me and this child is the right answer?” she accused with a wavering voice.

“You have a family, Sansa. Mom, dad, siblings — I had an absentee father and matching bruised knuckles from the oh-so-caring sisters during my Catholic education.” And despite himself, the crux passed his lips. “Cat was right about me when she left. I fuck up everything I touch. I don’t deserve to be in your life.”

“For such an intelligent man, you are an idiot.” Petyr looked at her sharply from between his fingers. “You are!” She hammered at her breast with accusation. “You think I’m not absolutely terrified. I am! I don’t know what I’m doing.” She marched the edges of the room. “I can’t believe I defended you to my father only to come home to this,” she scoffed. 

Curiosity got the better of him. Dropping his hands, he asked, “What do you mean?”

Sansa continued to skirt the room, and his eyes darted between her belly — more prominent than when he last saw her — and the scornful look on her face. “My mother told him you ran out on Lysa the second you found out she was pregnant-”

Petyr jumped from his seat. “That’s a lie! I didn’t even know she was pregnant when I left.”

But Sansa continued talking over him unabated, “-and then I come home to you trying to do the same to me.”

“I’m not running away,” he growled. 

“Aren’t you?” she said with a sneer to her lip.

“No.” Petyr snapped, snatching the documents from the table. Arms strained as he tore them, shredded them until the pieces littered the ground and his chest heaved from the effort.

Sansa surveyed him, the white tatters surrounding him. Her brows lifted as she declared, “Good.”

Petyr didn’t miss the barely there smile that tipped one side of her mouth, and as he caught his breath, looked to his feet, he realized what she’d done. What she’d convinced him to do. He almost laughed. The self-doubt that had clouded his judgment since seeing Cat again lifted. “So what do we do now?”

“I don’t know.” And Sansa smiled to herself as she took a seat on his sofa with an exasperated sigh and she met his eyes once more. “But we don’t run. Agreed?”

Petyr sank into the seat next to her, held out his hand until she filled it with her own. “Agreed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Sorry it took me so long to update, but resolving the worst of the conflict is over. Should be smooth-ish sailing for the last two chapters and hopefully it won't take me six months to update again. Yeesh.


End file.
